


Existence

by Hogwhorets



Category: markiplier - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Hunger Games
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-01
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-04-07 01:44:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 20
Words: 35,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4244826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hogwhorets/pseuds/Hogwhorets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You have been thrown into a world entirely based on a spin-off of the Hunger Games, and by some freak stroke of chance, you have been chosen to participate in the 115th annual Hunger Games. Now, this might not be too utterly disastrous if you weren't at a complete disadvantage, and accompanied by an arrogant douche from your district that is surely going to get you killed. You won't last a day, right? Well, let's just say, there's a certain someone from District Three that might prove to be a useful ally.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Psychosis

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE : Not every detail of this fanfiction may be 100% accurate with the layout of the true Hunger Games universe. Please keep in mind that this is a spin-off. Plus, Markimoo's here! Enjoy c:

"It appears we're going to have to prescribe you new medications, [Name]. Your current ones just aren't producing the results we'd like, so we're prepared to do a test run of a substance more well suited to your..." Your doctor seems to be fumbling for words, which is still a step up from Dr. Ross, whom might have just bluntly called you out on your condition.

"Psychosis?" You mumble, playing with the white wrapper on the edge of the examining table. You have no use for being on it, for this is only a regular checkup, but it is here nonetheless.

"I wouldn't call it that, exactly. You must understand, [Name], these tendencies you've developed do not mean that you're some sort of monster. While others here may not express very much hope for you, I personally believe you'll be able to make a full recovery.” Your doctor sighs, lowering her clipboard long enough to study you over her glasses. “I don't think you're going to go on some sort of psychotic rampage because of your condition, nor do I think you're disabled at completing normal functions and activities."

You fumble with your fingers. “And what exactly is my condition?"

"Well, if you'd like me to avoid using lengthy - and frankly pointless - medical terms, I'd say my best choice of words would be extreme emotional trauma. However, that's exactly what's to be expected, in your state. You witnessed something horrible. People don't just jump back from that. Your behavior is hardly irrational."

"What about the dreams?" You don’t like talking about them, but you know you are obligated to, and you can’t suppress them on your own.

"Has your insomnia medication not been effective?"

"No, it...works, it's just that...it knocks me out, and my sleep is so heavy that I can't pull myself out of it when they come."

Your doctor pauses. "When who comes, [Name]?"

"The dreams."

"Are you having the same ones?" She is scribbling on her clipboard now.

"Yeah, I guess I am. A little more...intense, maybe? I don't know, I...he's just there, always, and the screaming is so loud."

"Your father, you mean?" She studies you over the tip of her papers.

"Yeah, just...his face, it's like it's printed on the back of my eyelids." You feel as though you can see it everywhere you look - sometimes, he even flashes across your vision when you blink, for just a flicker of a second, but it's enough.

"Well I'll see if I can get Dr. Ross's signature on some heavier duty sleep medications. At a certain dose, you'd be so weighed down into REM sleep that your rest would be entirely dreamless. Would you consent to that?"

"Yeah...yeah."

She takes a moment before responding, writing down the details of your visit, and, you presume, a note about your new prescription. "Alright, [Name]. I'll see about getting those pills for you. Is there anything else you were concerned about, any other problems with your medications or routine engagements?”

"I feel a little distant, like I can’t connect with people." It is true, even with people you've known for a long time. You don’t want to be around them, ever, and can’t bring yourself to feel any sort of empathy for anyone.

"Feeling anti-social is a minor side effect of the medication cocktail you're on. I’m afraid your current insomnia medication and the anti-depressants, as well as anxiety medication, don't mix particularly well, but you should feel much better with these new sleep medications."

"I guess."

"Is that all, [Name]?" Dr. Barnes studies you curiously, raising a brow.

You stare at your hands. "Yeah, that's all."

"Why do I feel like there's something you aren't mentioning?" You shrug at her question.  "[Name], I know I’m your doctor, and these interactions can get a little awkward, but I’m also your consultant, so if there's anything else, it’s okay to tell me." Barnes sets down her clipboard, and takes a seat next to you, leaning in as if she were your psychiatrist.

"I...I'm not interested, in anything. It's more than being anti-social, it's...complete numbness. I can’t stay focused on anything, or maintain any hobbies. I can't talk to people, or feel things for people. I feel like a sociopath that barely harbors the motivation to live." You were mumbling now, not comfortable with pouring out your innermost thoughts in such a manner.

“Distance and anhedonia are common side effects of delayed-onset post-traumatic stress disorder, [Name]. You shouldn't feel guilty because you can't do things that you used to. It'll get better as you do, I promise." Now she sounded more like a doctor, but you manage to connect with reality long enough to follow.

"Okay...yeah."

"Now, is that really all this time?” Dr. Barnes stands, offering you a hand. You take it, pulling yourself to your feet.

"Yeah, that's all." You brush your hands across your jeans, running your thumb over the fringed holes that speckle your thighs.

"Alright, well you have my number, so call me if any of your symptoms worsen, or you take note of new ones. Your prescription should be ready to pick up in a few days."

"Thanks, doc." You always feel like Bugs Bunny when you said that.

"It’s my job, [Name]. Now, let's not keep your grandfather waiting, hmm?" Barnes pulls open the door for you, and you hastily hurry out, into a fluorescently lit hallway.

"Alright."


	2. Struggle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You might be a part of one of the wealthiest districts of Panem, but that doesn't mean you're welcome.

_“[Name]? Is everything alright?”_ Your doctor seems concerned – you weren’t usually the one to insinuate calls between the two of you.

“Everything is fine, it’s…fine. I was just calling to let you know that the medication worked, at least for the first night. No dreams.” You set the phone on your desk as you go about your sketches, the notebook propped against the corner of the desk and your lap.

_“Oh, that’s wonderful. Any side effects?”_

“I’m a bit groggy, but that’s nothing new.” You shrug, tracing the outline of a woman’s hip.  You are doing a portrait, taking aspects from other drawings you've done. Blue hair, wide figure, sunflower tattoos. You like to draw unique characters, unlike your typical tall and thin figures. This one’s name is Sansa, and you had almost given her an entire backstory.

_“Well I’m so happy it helped you. I have to go for now, but I expect to see you Thursday, alright?”_

You nod, struggling to reign a grasp on reality. It takes you a second to realize the woman isn’t physically here, so she can’t see your gestures.

“See you later,” You mumble, ending the call. You abandoned your sketch for a moment, so that you can prepare yourself some tea. It is calming, and keeps your anxiety at a manageable level. As you are fumbling with the honey, you hear a knock sounding from the front hall.

You freeze, your fingers beginning to shake a little. You aren’t good at social interactions, even with people you know well. It is both a side effect of your medication and your condition, making it twice as perplexing. Despite your overwhelming unease, you force yourself to approach the front door, undoing the lock. You aren’t wearing pants, but your oversized District One sweatshirt comes halfway down your thighs, and you can’t bring yourself to care. Your hair is also tied up in a messy do that very nearly resembles dreads, being the mess of pastel pink curls that it is, but again, your apathy is strong.

Slowly, you manage to peel open the door, just enough to peer through the crack. An elegantly dressed woman stands outside, a chipper smile plastered across her bright green lips. She's covered head to toe in...well,  _very_ ostentatious clothing - a dress composed of shimmery copper material and sets of orange-gold feathers that you can't identify. Nor do you want to, frankly. Her hair is the simplest part of her outfit, a simple knot of thick black hair tied atop her head. Her makeup is another story - harsh, bold black lines and two inch eyelashes, as well as viscid copper eye-shadow and blush. She's quite an assault on the eyes.

The woman seems to perk up the second you open the door, and quickly takes a step forward, bouncing on her pearl-encrusted platform heels. "Hello! You must be [F/Name] [L/Name]!"

Your response forms a solid lump in your throat, creating a couple seconds of awkward silence before you're able to choke out a reply. Her smile never wavers, despite the unpleasant lack of dialogue. "Y-yeah, that's me," You stutter, taking a moment to further shield yourself behind the door, so that only your eye is visible, "Can I help you?"

She shoves a small, decorative envelope in your direction, grinning. "I'm in charge of visiting the individuals of this sector, to remind everyone about the Reaping tomorrow!" The last few words of her statement are sing-song, making the pit of your stomach drop.

With everything on your plate, you'd almost managed to forget. "Y-yes, thank you." You take the envelope, numb fingers noticeably shaky, and attempt to close the door. She quickly shoves her foot forward, preventing you from locking her out.

"We have a very special surprise in store! The 115th annual Games is certainly something to behold." She gives you an unsettling wink. Something about her entire chipper demeanor is just...unsettling. How can anyone be so happy about something so...atrocious? "Make  _sure_ to attend, darling. Maybe you'll be so lucky as to represent our district this year!"

You swallow dryly, trying to mask the overwhelming turmoil flooding through your bloodstream. "I'll be sure to be there." You manage, shutting the door swiftly, before she can say anything else. As you lean back against it, a giant breath manages to slip between your lips, of which are chapped and dry. You slide slowly to the floor, feeling as if your small, tight grasp on reality is being slowly pried from your grasp, leaving you with nothing.

You're not sure what she means by  _very special surprise,_ but it fills you with such unease that you have to take a moment to drown out all of the thoughts screaming from the depths of your consciousness. Typically, those considered mentally or physically ill past a certain standard aren't placed into the drawings, which should protect you, but you can't shake the feeling that it's not enough this year. Ever since you were diagnosed, you hadn't been placed into the Reaping, which had protected you, for years. The citizens of District One considered competing in the Games to be an honor, so having someone clearly incapable, such as a person with a mental or physical handicap, just wasn't acceptable. You, and people like you, were a disgrace. To the people of your District, at least.

You sit there for a few more moments before you're able to pull yourself up, shuffling numbly to the kitchen to retrieve your tea. As you sip from the mug, apathetic to the bitter burn in your throat, you realize something.

If you get chosen at the Reaping, by some stroke of misfortune, you are going to die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be looking forward to a certain someone's appearance in the next couple chapters!


	3. Preparation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To sum it up, the Reaping goes horribly.

Your alarm is blaring loudly enough to jolt you from your drug-induced sleep and force your hand on a hard ride with reality. You groan internally, reaching desperately for your bedside table, where your hand quickly and fluently finds the off button on your clock.

As you fumble around, your fingers whisper over something rough. You grasp the edge, bringing it lazily to your eyes. It's the envelope that the woman gave you yesterday. Your grasp on reality comes rushing in all at once, like a sharp knife twisting in your gut. _Dammit,_ you think to yourself, cursing under your breath. Today is the day you've been dreading since you opened your door yesterday – today is the Reaping.

Given, you normally wouldn't have that high of a chance of being chosen, due to your medication cocktail and instability, but never-the-less, you have a feeling that something is different this year. It's very unlikely that they'll change such standards, but possible all the same, and the very thought chills you down to the fibers of your being.

You quickly get up, tying your mass of pink curls into a bun, and pull a loose cardigan over the t-shirt that you’d worn to bed. You’ve never been one for following the raging fashions of the Capitol, and despite the fact that it is frowned upon, you tend to dress for comfort. No crazy makeup, no crazy dresses or accessories. The most outstanding thing about your appearance is your colored hair, of which isn’t even a bright color – it is pastel pink.

You go through your simple morning routine – tying up your hair, brushing your teeth, and preparing a pot of tea – but the nagging feeling never leaves the outskirts of your mind. _What if I get chosen?_  It is not something you want to consider, because you know what the turnout would be. You would, without a doubt, be slaughtered on the battlefield.

You slip on some combat boots and make sure that you look…well, weak. The Reaping is said to be chosen at random, but you don’t want to give anyone any ideas. And, if worse comes to worse…you can at least make them underestimate you. That much, you’d have going for you. If it came to that.

The walk from your complex to Town Square is long and agonizing. Every step feels like it's bringing you closer to your death, and you fail to shake this heavy weight of doubt from your shoulders. Something just feels... _different_ about this Reaping. However, despite your suspicions, you couldn't name  _what_ felt so different if you tried. It's just a gut feeling. A heavy, complex knot weaving itself into the threads that are holding you together. 

You notice when the streets begin to tighten, and your breathing room feels unbearably clustered. People are  _everywhere,_ all shoving and desperately trying to get closer to the center, where a platform is raised, framed by a set-up of expensive-looking screens and speakers. A man stands atop the platform - Brecken Crew, the Games representative for your District - wearing layers of shimmery silver cloth and blue embroidery. His hair is dyed a similar, electric shade of blue, and spiked outwards in all directions. He wears a saccharine smile, much like that of the woman that visited you yesterday.  _  
_

You manage to find a place in the middle, swallowed by hundreds and hundreds of other people, all dressed just as extravagantly. You almost stand out - all neutral colors and loose clothing. Being in such close vicinity to so many people sparks a fresh flood of anxiety, but you manage to suppress it long enough to focus on Brecken, who is now standing front and center.

He's behind a tall, silver microphone, with two large, glass bowls on either side of him. The bowls are filled with little white slips - name cards, if you recall correctly. You've always attempted to drown out the Reaping, and with good reason. Each card contains the name of an individual, and the bowls are split into males, on his left, and females, to his right.

He taps the microphone once, emitting a loud  _ping_ that makes you cringe.

" _Ah, yes! Welcome to the Reaping for the 115th annual Hunger Games!"_ He booms into the microphone. A cheer goes up from the crowd around you, but you remain silent, transfixed by your own horror. " _As you all know, this is a very_ special  _year for the Games. In celebration, we have made a few..._ changes,  _to better the competition for our viewers."_ He grins wickedly. " _This year, our tributes will be anywhere between twelve and thirty, as opposed to eighteen. Also, one tribute will be the picture of superior health, and the other inferior. This is just to throw a little...variation into this annual Hunger Games."_ _  
_

You feel your heart leap to your throat, making breathing quite difficult. 

This is what you’ve been dreading. This is that final strike against any thread of hope you’d been holding on to, prying it from your cold, dead fingers.

“ _Let’s get right to it! First, our male tribute.”_ Brecken makes a show of shoving his long, slender fingers into the glass dome to his left. He shuffles around for what felt like ages, picking up and putting down namecard after namecard, until he finally settles on one that seems to please him. How he chooses, you had no idea. They are all the same – a small, white slip of paper, folded in half, so as to shield the name within. You decide that perhaps it’s all for show, just like everything else about him.

He lifts the paper, slowly unfolding it before the crowd. His face lights up almost instantly – the opposite occurs on your own. If he’s this thrilled, that means that the name before him is that of a champion – someone strong, someone trained, and someone superior to you.

 _“You’re all simply going to adore this one!”_ He lifts the card, name first, as if the crowd can read it from this distance. “ _Attickus Ambrosia!”_

A chorus of sound goes up around you, and you can’t help but feel like it’s a rally cry, symbolizing the pride of your district. Despite the glee around you, you can’t bring yourself to partake. If this Attickus is the male tribute for your district, then that means that the female tribute is going to be of inferior health, whether it be mental or physical, and no doubt the target of much hate and shame from your district.

You swallow dryly as his fingers shift towards the dome on his right, like baited hooks searching for a victim. “ _And for our female tribute…,”_ He begins, unfolding the card, “ _Rose Livingston!”_

Confused cries are everywhere, including upon the platform. No one moves, except for those parting towards the center, to allow Attickus a clear path to the stage. As he makes his way up the steps, your speculations are confirmed – he’s broad shouldered and tall, with handsome, hard features, and rippling muscles across every expanse of his torso. He looks much like he could rip someone in half without effort, or regret, for that matter.

However, everyone’s eyes are not on him. They are on the female tribute, or the lack thereof. No one has moved. That is, until a small, squat man makes his way onto the platform, standing on his toes so as to reach Brecken’s ears. They exchange a few hushed words, and Brecken frowns.

“ _Well, everyone,”_ He says slowly, clearly feigning grief. You are clever enough to see through this façade – it is all for show, everything he does. “ _It appears that Rose Livingston, our female tribute to be, let her illness get the better of her a few days ago. Never worry, however, we will simply draw again!”_

He dips his fingers into the dome once again, only this time, instead of taking his time, he quickly snatches another card. No rushing, no theatrics, just straight to the point. It’s almost worse than when he drags it out.

His face brightens with amusement, and his dark eyes flicker over the crowd, from person to person. His lips part, and he speaks the name into the microphone.

And your world slips out from under your feet.

_“[F/Name] [L/Name]!”_

 

_\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

You don’t remember much. Everything seems to simply fall away, leaving you in a numb, impenetrable state, where nothing and no one can stir you from your own horror. The walk to the platform, with a thousand shameful eyes on you, is but a streak on your memory, right next to the wicked grin smeared across Attickus’ face when you finally reached his side. The conclusion to the Reaping was but a regretful mess, as was the walk back to your complex, escorted by Peacekeepers, to collect your things. You had had no goodbyes to say, no ends to tie, no words to utter.

You don’t even really remember the ride to the capitol, or your arrival. You do remember the eyes – everywhere you went, people stared, whether trying to size you up or send sympathy your way, you don’t know. People were whispering too, inquiring every few seconds about the quiet, haunted-looking girl that seemed to shy away from every opportunity to engage in any sort of situation. People are interested in you, that much is clear.

They had ushered you into some building to be scrubbed and cleaned until you were utterly your most presentable. Now you sit on the edge of an examination table, two attendants running around you and fussing with every little thing. One is currently cutting your fingernails, and making them look clean. You bite them, so they look a little rough. The other is combing your hair, and adding different sprays that you’ve never paid attention to in your life.

“She’s awfully quiet,” The woman fussing over your hair says, “You’d think a District One tribute would be excited. The other one sure is.” She is a short, plump woman, with bright red hair compiled into large curls atop her head. She wears a rather simple outfit, probably more by orders than by choice. Come to think of it, everyone here wears the same thing – pristine white cloths, tapered around their torsos and legs. Nothing unique at all, which is completely odd for the Capital. The only extraordinary thing about the attendants are their hairstyles.

“Can you blame her, Maiya?” The woman at your hands utters, her tone hushed. She’s the prettier of the two, tall and curvy, with flowing raven-hued locks that glint purple and green when light hits them. “She’s being marched off to her death, at a complete disadvantage.”

“Don’t talk like that, Isabella,” Maiya hisses, looking over her shoulder, “They’ll replace you if they hear that sort of speak.”

Isabella seems to remind herself of that, you notice, but shoots you a sympathetic look all the same. Maiya quickly finishes with your hair, and Isabella your nails, and they give you leave to move on. As you get up, shuffling nervously next to the table, Isabella grabs your shoulder, leaning in.

“You’re a quiet one, indeed. Use that.” She whispers, offering you a friendly smile. “Good luck, sweetheart. You’ll need it.”

You are ushered into another room, completely at a loss for words. She’s the first person to show you any sort of sympathy since the Reaping, and it stirs an uneasy quiver in your stomach.

“ _District One prep attendants to cubicles one and two.”_  The voice filters in through a speaker just above the door, and you are pushed into a large room, lined with small boxes – cubicles – on either wall. There are twelve on each side, and above each set of two stretches a sign, for whatever district the cubicle belongs to. The walls are silver, lined with rectangular patches of a soft-looking black material, much like Styrofoam. The cubicles’ walls are black as well, and inside, they are heavily furnished.

You are steered towards the first one on your left, and you notice that Attickus is in the one directly to the right of it, surrounded by a group of flirtatious women. A few take notice of your entrance and reluctantly make their way to your own room, closing a fold-out wall behind you, for privacy, you assume. Inside, there is a large vanity, littered with different materials you can’t identify, as well as a dresser, a set of double-wide cabinets, and a few chairs.

One of the women, a tall, stalky individual with bright red hair, gives you a once-over and sighs, shaking her head. “They weren’t kidding about her,” She says, clearly unimpressed, “She has no chance.”

At that, you set your jaw firmly, staring at her with cold, hard eyes. She’s not entirely wrong, but you’re tired of people stating the obvious in your presence, as if you aren’t capable of hearing them.

“Oh,” She says, a grin spreading over her lips as she notices your expression, “Maybe she does. Look at that, she might be quiet, but maybe she has a little fierceness in her after all.”

Another woman, with a tall, electric blue Mohawk, fumbles through the dresser in the corner. She pulls out what appears to be a stretch of nylon-like material, colored orange and dark gray, like the tributes wear. You’d never have thought you’d be putting it on, but here you are.

You quickly realize that they all have very brightly colored hair, which makes a useful tool to identify them by. Red, the woman that spoke only moments before, steers you towards Blue, who stands waiting with the suit. Reluctantly, you shed your clothes, replacing them with this uniform. Both girls stare at you expectantly, as if you’re supposed to wow them with your dazzling personality or say something they want to hear.

“I dunno, she seems pretty fragile,” Blue says after a short expanse of time, motioning for you to sit in front of the vanity. She starts grabbing at your hair, twisting it up into some sort of knotted ponytail, wrapping any loose strands around the band that holds it together. “Then again, you remember that boy from District Six a couple of years ago? He was quiet to the bitter end, never said a word, and he won.”

“His father was also a retired Peacekeeper, so he at least knew what he was doing.” Red shakes her head, studying your hairstyle and fussing over it until it meets her standard. It looks the same as it did before to you, but you say nothing, too focused on their conversation.

“You have a point. Oh, have you heard about that boy from District Three? Some tech wiz, apparently a bit of a celebrity. He plays games for a living, I think.” A giddy smile finds it’s way onto Blue’s lips. “I’ve heard that he’s pretty cute, too.”

“Oh yeah, that guy. His district is really boastful about his abilities – apparently playing games for a living gives someone quite a bit of fighting ability.” Red clicks her tongue, almost disapprovingly. “He does have a good expanse of knowledge resting in that head of his, though. His stats said that he was on the path to becoming a biomedical engineer. If he wins, maybe he still can.”

“I think Attickus has a good shot.” Blue’s tone says a lot. You can’t imagine it’s unusual for girls to be fawning over him – Attickus is attractive, but you think it’s safe to bet that his arrogance will get him killed. “You’re finished.”

You stand, anxious to get out of there, and away from all of their talk of winners and experience. It’s nice to know who you’re going up against, but it’s making you anxious. All of these people you keep hearing about have some sort of vast advantage against you, and here you are, with your anxiety and night terrors, and inferior strength and ability.

As you make your way to the training facility, you consider something - if you can do as they say, and use your silence, maybe make your opponents underestimate you, you might have a small shot. The thought alone is enough to stir a burning flame of determination inside of you.

You are going to prove them wrong. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gear up for the next chapter! A certain someone's going to prove to be quite the competition - perhaps it's best to make allies?


	4. Thalia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You're out of place and inexperienced, but a tribute from District Three helps you out

The training arena is vast, separated into different quadrants to hone different abilities, and yet you stand by the entrance, at a loss. There are people,  _kids,_ moving all around you - you spy a girl of about thirteen, practicing throwing sharpened, crescent-shaped daggers at a target twenty feet away. She's off-centered, but hits her target all the same, creating a shudder effect up the length of your spine. A group of teenage boys stand behind her, snickering to themselves, until she turns on them with a knife raised. You watch with silent bemusement, astonished how fierce someone so young could be.

"Her name is Silver Dunbryll, District Two," A voice says behind you, deep and oddly amiable, "They train their children from a young age." 

You flinch, turning your head quickly. Flanking you is a broad-shouldered man, a few inches taller than you are, with crazy black hair and thinly framed glasses. He is smiling at you, his expression somewhat friendly. You are almost stirred to speak, but hesitate, not quite ready to put your trust in anyone. That's the smarter path to take, considering only one person can win the Games, and you know too little about the other tributes to start making allies.

He notices your hesitation and extends a hand, smile broadening. "Mark Fischbach," He says calmly, "District Three."

 _This is that guy that my attendants were talking about,_ you realize.  _The tech genius._

He's looking at you expectantly now, and you know he wants your name. You fidget for a moment, before finally deciding to enlighten him - simply giving your name can't give away your weaknesses, can it? 

"[F/Name] [L/Name]," You reply quietly, breaking eye contact, "District One."

He shifts, almost uncomfortably. You realize in that instant that he knows something.  _Does he know? Dear god, he knows. I'm the inferior of my duo and he knows it._ The sympathetic glint to his eye only confirms your fears, and you sigh, crossing your arms. 

"I've, uh...heard about you," Mark says after a short span of time, "The quiet one." 

You suppose that being the quiet one as opposed to the crazy one is better than nothing. If you play your cards right, your silence could be your greatest asset. You simply nod in response, and he grins, turning to watch the other tributes. You debate inquiring about this 'experience' that he's said to have, but decide against it, proving true to your new nickname.

"You've been standing up here for a while." Mark glances over at you, and his words sink in. You realize just how right he is - every other tribute is milling about, practicing one technique or another, and you're frozen to your spot, doing nothing. "Are you good at anything?"

You simply shake your head, developing a steely glint in your eyes. You don't quite know why you're being so honest, but he doesn't seem like he's trying to size you up, as the others do.

 _No, stupid, of course he is,_ you remind yourself, _He's here to win, just like everyone else. Everything you tell him is another tally against your favor._

As if he can read your thoughts, he lets out a soft chuckle, watching Silver continue her knife play. "I'm beginning to think that your silence is a defense mechanism," He says quietly. He doesn't look away from Silver, and you're almost grateful. All of this eye contact is wearing you out. "Keep people out, and no one betrays you, right? Of course, you could just be traumatized, but that's not it, is it?"

He's right, but not totally. You are terrified beyond your wits, to the point that your bones feel like fragile blocks of ice, threatening to shatter with every step forward. You don't  _want_ to be here, fighting to the death for the petty amusement of a lack-wit president and brainless individuals who could just as casually prepare a meal as watch your downfall. 

"You're going to make them underestimate you, right?" He asks suddenly, cutting off your thoughts. How could he possibly know that? You break your silence long enough to ask why he would think so, and he simply laughs, shaking his head. "I play games for a living - picking up on strategies is my thing."

You consider that - if he plays games, that means that he is, in fact, veteraned...in some ways. He has to be familiar with strategy, and looking for unlikely solutions, as well as finding alternate ones. Surely he's familiar with weapons, even sparsely, and the most efficient ways to make kills without expending too much energy. You smile to yourself as you process this - it appears that his own strategy is unfolding before you.

"You're going to use your game experience and try to figure everyone out," You mumble quietly, "Take note of their weaknesses, assign them to different boss types, use their strengths against them."

He seems taken aback by your statement, clearly surprised with your words, as well as how plentiful they are. "Am I that obvious?" He asks, seemingly sheepish. 

You smile to yourself, a small tug at the corners of your lips. "No, but one finds good observations in silence." Your tone is slightly amused, and he scratches at the back of his neck, slightly embarrassed.

"You're clever." Mark smiles then, beckoning for you to follow him. You do so, reluctantly, acutely aware of the many eyes that fall on you as you pass. 

You know that you aren't the only inferior tribute here - one of every pair is like you in some way, and yet, it's hard to pick those few out. A couple of them, however, are obvious - a young woman, muttering to herself in the corner. A boy no older than fifteen, moving as quickly as he can with his mangled, twisted legs. A man, possibly in his mid-twenties, struggling to get a bow into his hands, for he keeps glancing over his shoulder and whispering sharply to someone that isn't there. They're all around you, the ones  _like_ you, and yet you can't help but feel alone. You function almost normally, you do, or at least you've convinced yourself.

Mark leads you around a bend, stopping a few steps from the camouflage section of the arena. He smiles to himself, and you realize that's he's watching a girl. Training your eyes to the left, you watch as a small, thin girl, no older than twelve, paints what might resemble stone onto her left arm.

"Her name is Thalia." His tone has shifted to something you can't quite place - is he sad? It takes you only a moment to realize - she must be the other tribute from his district.

As she turns, you really notice how thin she is. Sickly, almost, but not from malnourishment. It's part of her stature, you'd wager, but she seems as if she'd blow over in the wind. Her hair is long and dark, auburn brown, tied into a knotted braid that spans mid-way down her back. She has big, doe-like blue eyes and a sprinkle of freckles across her cheeks. There's a gap between her two front teeth when she smiles, which she does now, running up to Mark and throwing her arms around his waist. 

"Hey kiddo," He says gruffly, looking to you. You see something, flickering beneath that mask of his, that false exterior. For a moment, you swear that you can see the dark circles under his eyes, the lines where his lips pull into a frown, the haunted expression he wears, but it disappears just as quickly as it came. "How's your camouflage coming along?"

She smiles, holding her arm up for the both of you to examine. It's actually very good - the details and shading are precise, almost professional. Impressed, you offer her a warm smile. She races back off to her station, and you watch as she extends the design to her shoulder.

"She's a good kid, really," Mark says, looking to you. His exhausted expression has returned, only his eyes glint with something new - hope. "She's only twelve." His voice is but a whisper now, and the look that overcomes his face as he watches her nearly melts your hard exterior. "She's my...my niece, [Name.] She's got severe panic disorder."

You swallow the guilty lump forming in your throat - watching her cover herself in paint without a care in the world stirs a new feeling in your gut. You've been so busy rolling in your own misery that you haven't really stopped to think that there are people here in worse conditions, _kids,_ like Thalia. You raise your gaze from her to Mark's, and he meets it, looking as if he's struggling to find his words.

"I had to volunteer," He chokes out, his amiable exterior now officially dissolved, "I couldn't let her die. I couldn't let them kill her. She's so _young,_ [Name]." He leans against the wall, running his hands over the parts of his face not obscured by his glasses. "They're going to take advantage of her and I couldn't just sit back and  _watch."_

You are at a loss for words - nothing you could possibly say would change what had been done. Yet still, you can't help but feel for this guy. He actually _volunteered,_  just to save his niece. You can't decide if you could have done the same thing. "What about her parents?" You say at last, curiosity getting the better of you. To have their child, as well as brother, whisked away to their almost-certain death must have been excruciating.

Mark had gathered himself a bit now, and he flashes a quick smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes when Thalia glances over. "Tom," He says, when she finally looks away, "My brother. He was an assembly worker, along with her mother. Working conditions weren't the safest."

The _was_ is the part that nearly keels you over. You ponder for a moment, feeling the last bit of your reluctance melt away. "Mark," You whisper, glancing over your shoulder. The other tributes are all busy, either practicing weaponry or speaking with one another.

He looks to you, that hopeful glint still somehow in his eye. "Yeah?" He asks, his voice slightly hoarse.

"I want you to teach me what you know," You say after a short pause, setting your jaw in fierce determination. You lean in close, to avoid being picked up by any eavesdroppers or security systems, and whisper into his ear. "I...I'm gonna do this. I might be weak and untalented, but I can at least try. I'm not gonna just let her die."


	5. Motives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How can you trust people that you don't know?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy July 4th! And a chapter, in celebration! I'm a piece of trash.
> 
> Also, I'm open to all criticism and suggestion =) Have any ideas for where certain aspects of the story should go? I'm writing as I go, so I'm all ears!

Needless to say, the other tributes had been nothing if not surprised when you'd grabbed the spear. You assume that they're all expecting you to crumble before the competition even starts - that definitely seems like something that the 'quiet, weak girl from District One' would do. But you aren't that girl. Or you won't be, when you get a grasp on what you're doing.

Mark's surprise at your statement had been expected, but his ceaseless incredulity is both an insult and a fuel for your fire. Sure, you've been quiet, and a little on the meeker side, but you aren't  _that_ benign-looking, right? Then again, you really shouldn't criticize yourself - benign is good. Benign is  _clever._ Make them underestimate you, and they'll leave you alone, at least for a little while. Why waste energy on such a little threat? And if they do belittle you, that will just make your attacks all the more surprising. You hope, at least.

Of course, all of this depends on your ability to handle a weapon, which you are currently struggling to do. The spear is long and heavy - the  _pointy end,_ as Mark had called it, is weighed down by a heavy, steel point, lined with small, silvery feathers. Why an instrument that you use to end another's life would need to be easy on the eyes escapes you, but that's not your biggest concern.

"Okay, [Name.]" Mark sighs, taking a step back to study your form. He places a hand on his chin, looking down at you from over the rims of his glasses as if he's trying to solve an equation. You're sure that he's used to those, considering the profession he was planning on going into. "Who am I kidding?" He says, running a hand through his hair. "I worked with technology, I have no idea how you're supposed to do this. Maybe you should consider another weap-"

He's cut off by the clearing of a throat, and you both jolt at the sound, taking notice of a girl of tall stature. She smirks, swiftly grasping the end of the spear and pulling it out of your grasp. You're too startled to object, and you watch as she lifts it over her shoulder, and with a small flick of her elbow, it goes sailing past the three of you and buries itself in the target, dead-center.

Mark's mouth falls open. You just stand there, choked up on the conflicting amounts of confusion and awe flooding your brain cells. "It's all in the arm, really." She murmurs, her voice both quiet and strong, and you're at a loss for how that can be. You can't decide whether she's a possible ally or a threat - she holds a certain reserved manner to her that makes it very hard to see the layers in-between. Is she helping you, or showing off?

She simply crosses her arms. She's pretty, that's plain to see. The top portion of her hair is tied into a knot, while the rest falls into fierce red curls that cascade just past her shoulders. She has bright green eyes and a sampling of freckles, pulled taught over an upturned nose and a soft set of plump pink lips. Her bust is generous, and her hips are wide - she could very easily be a model of some sort, and yet, something about her seems different. You're trying to figure out what that is when she speaks again.

"You're [F/Name] [L/Name], from District One." Her eyes drill holes into your own, and you start to feel panic, cold and suffocating, making it's way up your spine. "Attickus is the other tribute from your district. Strong, and fast, but incredibly arrogant. It will get him killed." She tilts her head to the side, and something about it is almost cat-like. "But you're different. Quiet, collected, hard to read. You don't wear your strengths and weaknesses on your sleeve, like he does."

You're struggling for words when Mark pipes up, raising a suspicious brow at her. "What do you want?" He asks, and you can tell that he's trying not to sound hostile.

The redhead breaks eye contact with you so that she can hone in on him, the corners of her lips turning up into a small, makeshift smile. It's not smug, but...what is it? You can't seem to figure her out, which is usually something you're fairly good at.

"And you are Mark Fischbach, from District Three." Her words are quipped, masked with this all-knowing tone that grinds your nerves. "You were going to pursue biological engineering, before The Reaping. You are very intelligent, and can improvise efficiently. Your knowledge of game-play makes it easy for you to read people and strategize, and you're smart about who you trust." She glances over at you briefly, motioning with her left arm. "You don't fully trust her yet, but you want to."

"How do you know all of this?" Mark asks, clearly irritated.  _She's really getting to him,_ you pipe internally, shifting uncomfortably. The redhead isn't done, however.

"The other tribute from your district is Thalia Fischbach, your niece. She suffers from severe panic disorder, and you volunteered for the Games with the foolish hope that you can save her." She retrieves the spear from the target, shifting the weight between her hands. You and Mark both seem to be at a great loss for words - how can she possibly know all of this? "You'll find that I know a lot of things, Mark Fischbach. One thing I can't seem to figure out, however," She looks you dead in the eye as she tosses the spear once more, and your heart nearly stops beating as it slices through the red at the center, "Is what's wrong with you."

Something clicks in Mark, and he pipes up knowingly. "Wait a minute, you're that girl from District Four, aren't you? Delphi Erwin?"

Delphi simply smiles, extending her hands to the both of you. You shake it, hesitantly, and she wraps her strong, slender fingers tightly around your own. "Pleasure." Her mood has shifted completely, now resembling something almost pleasant. She releases Mark's hand, but continues to grip yours, making that piercing eye contact that sends a shiver up your spine once again. She pulls you forward, enough that she can whisper into your ear, and shoves something into the pocket of your suit. "Be careful who you trust. Only one person can win these games, and the only way that that is going to be you, is if you're smart with your strategy. Learn fast, be observant, and don't underestimate _anyone._ Everyone has a hidden motive here.  _Everyone_."And, with that, she shoves the spear back into your hands and walks off, tossing her red hair over her shoulder. You stare after her in silence, before gripping the shaft of the weapon tightly, raising it over your shoulder. 

You try to mimic her actions, and give the spear a toss - it goes sailing forward, burying it's point into a thick blue ring. You didn't hit the red in the middle, but the fact that your spear hit the target at all is enough for you. Pumping your fists in a motion of sweet, sweet victory, you glance over at Mark, who is offering you a small, satisfied smile. You're happy with your progress, but Delphi's words still ring in the back of your mind.  _Only one person can win these Games._ Mark is staring at you now, and you can't help but feel as if he's trying to figure out what she said to you.  _Everyone has a hidden motive here. Everyone._ Wouldn't everyone include her, too?

"[Name?]"

You shake your head, trying to free your thoughts, and offer him a reassuring smile. Even if Delphi does have a secret motive to helping you, she's given you good advice. You will learn fast, and you will be observant. Even more so than you have been. 

"What was with her?" You ask as you retrieve the spear from the target, paying close attention to how it feels in your hands - the weight, the dynamic, where it's center of gravity falls. 

Mark sighs, his shoulders giving a light roll. "I don't know, but it's really unsettling how much she knew." He glances up at you, and you can't help but notice the shift in his chocolate brown eyes - they no longer gleam with hope, but something else that you can't register. You both stand there for a second, you adjusting the weight of the spear in your hands, and him staring the ground, contemplating something. Finally, he speaks again. "I should really go check on Thalia."

You don't stop him, only nod, quickly returning to your practice. An uneasy feeling that you can't seem to shake has settled in your bones, and you're beginning to realize the gravity of your situation. You want to trust him, truly, but you've only known the guy for a day, and under the circumstances, it's just not smart. Yes, he seems genuine enough, but he's a tribute, just like you, preparing himself to fight twenty three other kids to the death. Well, except for Thalia, but in all honesty, you're not sure that she's going to make it. The spark of motivation that you'd felt just moments before, that strive to preserve his niece, is gone. Part of you wants to drop any goals you have and simply survive, but another part of you wants to stick to your words, and help him out. 

You practice the spear for another hour or so, and then move on to the daggers that Silver had been throwing when you'd arrived. They're lighter and easier to manipulate, and you find that you actually like them better. Throughout your training, you feel the eyes burning into your back - they're all around you, enemies, allies, and everything in between. The irony of it is that you don't yet know who is what.

An announcement comes on over the speakers some time later telling all tributes to report to their rooms, and still no sign of Mark. You sigh, setting the crescent blades that you've been practicing with back on the weapon rack to the right of the targets, and brush your sweaty palms off on your sides. You're not entirely sure where to go from here, so you just follow the other tributes, studying them as you go. Now that you're looking, you realize that Mark truly is  _nowhere_ to be seen, and neither is Thalia. 

You freeze at the doorway, quickly becoming the last tribute left in the training arena. Everyone else has filtered through into the hallway, which leads to what you assume is an elevator of some sort. Surely your rooms are in the same building, maybe a few floors up? It seems a bit redundant for them to be in another building, so you shrug, figuring that you'll find your way later.

"I still don't get you," A silky voice, coming from your left. 

Delphi is leaning against the wall, twirling a butterfly knife between her fingers. "What don't you get?" You ask as casually as you can manage, crossing your arms. You had thought you were the last to leave the arena, but to be fair, you hadn't really checked. 

"Why you're the Inferior," She murmurs, emerald eyes trained on the weapon in her hand. She glances up, briefly, as if trying to gauge your reaction to her sudden appearance. The 'Inferior' is a term you picked up on when you arrived - it is what they call the tributes with the disadvantages, and the others are referred to as Superiors. "You don't seem very off to me, other than the fact that you're from District One and  _don't_ want to be in the Games."

You have to play your cards right here. You can tell by her manner of speaking that this is a test, of sorts - for some reason, Delphi is trying to prepare you, in some way. For what, you don't know, just like you don't have the slightest inclination as to why she'd want to help you, if she's competing against you. You weigh your options, debating how to respond to her. One thing is clear, you can't just reveal your weaknesses to her.

"I'm not strong," You say curtly, trying to mask the overwhelming anxiety coursing through your veins. "I have no special physical talents, I'm slow, and my reaction time is close to none." You aren't really lying - you have no physical advantages what-so-ever, except maybe your size, which could aid to your evasiveness. However, you don't plan to stay that way. With enough training, and a bit of strategical planning, you could very easily gain some physical advantages. Never strength, to be sure, but perhaps speed, or stamina. 

"Perhaps, but that's not why you're the Inferior, now is it?" She clicks her tongue, a  _tsk tsk_ sound that unnerves you. "It's good, you know."

"What is?" You're uncertain as to what she means, but you try your best to appear confident, hoping to deter her from prying any more. You look around the room, hoping that you two really are the last in here - you can't have other tributes hearing conversations like this. Delphi is intuitive enough.

"The fact that you're so unreadable. Most Inferiors you can read through and through, right down to the very fiber that makes them what they are, but not you. You're a closed book. It'd be a smart move to keep it that way." 

When you glance up, she's gone, and the door to the hallway swings lazily in her absence. You release a heavy sigh that you've been holding on to, letting your arms fall, defeated, to your sides. Something about her really sets you off, but not in a  _you're tough competition_ sort of way. It's really more of a gut feeling that she's here for more than just the Games.  _And now we're right back where we started, with hidden motives. Great._

You make your way into the hallway, noticing a sign on the wall to your right. It reads,  **Tributes One - Six** , with an arrow that points to an elevator on your right. You take note of the little hand scanner, and place your palm against it, watching as small lights flicker across the screen. _Tribute [F/Name] [L/Name] confirmed_ , a voice says, catching you off guard. You shake off the eerie feeling that's flowing through your fingers and press the little upward arrow, managing to improvise patience long enough to make it into the elevator. It can't rise to your floor fast enough, and you find your breaths beginning to come quick and shallow. 

You wrap your arms around your sides, trying to envelop yourself in a false sense of security, but it doesn't work. Sliding your hands up to your hair, you clench fistfuls of it so tightly that you are surprised they don't come out. You slide to the floor of the elevator, tucking yourself away into the corner. You're panicking, and you don't have a way to stop it. Your doctor, all of your medications,  _everything_ , are back home where you can't reach them.

The doors slide open, revealing an empty, brightly-lit hallway, but you can't bring yourself to stand, much less make it to your room. You simply sit there, and watch through heavy eyes as the doors close, and the numbers rise.  _Two._ You feel a lump form in your throat, and your breaths begin to come even quicker, just short, staccato intakes of air. _Three._ Tears are forming in your eyes now, and they quickly begin to spill over, like water flooding a failing dam. The doors open, and you can barely make out a stocky figure through the blurs in your vision. 

You struggle to form coherent thoughts - your mind is overwhelmed with panic. _Who is that? God, don't let it be another tribute. They can't see me like this. They'll know...god, they'll know!_ You can't see who it is through your blind hysteria, and all you can manage to think is,  _floor three, floor three...that's District three, so who..._ And it clicks.

"Oh my god, [Name]?" 


	6. Stories

_Everyone has a secret motive. Everyone._

Your eyes flutter open suddenly, driven by a stabbing pressure inside your skull. You cry out, grasping tightly at your temples, trying to push it out. It's as if someone is squeezing your brain, digging their fingers into every groove. You reach out, your hand expectantly searching for a bedside table, littered with pills. It isn't there.

You shoot upwards and keel over, feeling slightly lightheaded at the sudden movement, but you adjust quickly. You don't recognize your surroundings. The familiar tendril of panic grasps at your throat, but you swallow it down, trying desperately to remember where you are. Last night, you'd left the arena after speaking with Delphi, and headed for your room. And then...and then what?

You're in a room that is very modernly decorated and oddly colored - the bed is a putrid shade of yellow, with turquoise bedding and pillows, and the carpet is a darker shade of yellow-brown. The walls are dark gray and empty, with no decorations on them save for the occasional bundle of candles hanging here and there. To the left of the bed, there is a set of three sculptures, bronze in hue and resembling the way links of a chain band together. 

You slide out of bed wearily, trying to get your bearings. What happened after you broke down in the elevator? You'd been so riddled with panic that it seems your brain didn't log the memories well, because they are fuzzy and hard to recall. Someone had helped you, you know, but you haven't the slightest inclination as to who.

A small flicker of movement just outside your field of vision makes you whip your head, only to spot a small frame ducking behind a closet door. "Thalia?" You croak, rubbing tiredly at your eyes.

She moves out into the open, her hesitation written clearly across her face. "I-I came to see if you were okay. You were asleep, so I didn't w-wake you, but..." She trails off, twiddling her thumbs.

 _That means that it was Mark, in the elevator last night._ You sigh heavily, sitting on the edge of the bed, and rub your hands over your face. You still aren't even sure that you can trust him, and now he's seen you like that...it's a weakness. Panic attacks, that's one of the things that make you an Inferior. And if he is a threat, that means that he knows one of your weaknesses.  _What am I doing?_ You think suddenly, glancing over at Thalia, who is staring timidly at her feet.  _Weighing my own problems without a care in the world. The poor girl looks scared to death._

"I'm fine, I promise." You flash her a reassuring smile. The corners of her mouth turn up at that, and she looks a little relieved. "Are  _you_ okay, Thalia? You left the arena early yesterday." Either that, or you just really suck at spotting faces in a crowd. They had to have left early, though. You did check, for Mark at least, and it's plausible that he'd leave  _with_ Thalia.

She nods, casting her gaze to her to her feet once more. "I had an attack," She mumbles, shrugging. "Uncle Mark got permission to bring me up here early, so I could calm down in private."

You feel your heart leap painfully to your throat, and your guilt hits you like a ton of bricks.  _She has panic disorder,_ you remember.  _She knows exactly what I went through._ "Where is Mark?" You ask after a moment of silence. She moves forward reluctantly, sitting on the edge of the bed beside you. You notice that her feet don't touch the ground, and she swings them back and forth playfully.  _God dammit, she's just a child._

"He's asleep. He stayed with me until I felt better, and then went to see if he could find the kitchens, downstairs." Thalia pauses, looking at you, and offers a small smile. "He always gave me ice cream after my attacks, back home." Her smile falls. "He was gone for a while, and then he came back, with you. I was...scared." 

You reach out tentatively, placing a hand on the girl's shoulder. She looks at it, clearly surprised. "I can't say I remember much of last night, but I'm sorry that I worsened the situation."

Thalia laughs softly, shaking her head. "It's okay, Ms. [Name]. He let me help calm you down. You really don't remember?" You shake your head, and she continues. "Well Uncle Mark got you a blanket and bundled you up, and stroked your hair until you were at least breathing normally. I gave you some of my ice cream." She smiles sheepishly, and you can't help but return it, befuddled at how sweet this child is.

When you realize what she said about Mark holding you, you feel a warmth creep into your chest.  _Don't be stupid,_ you quickly remind yourself.  _The situation was kind of thrust upon him. It was an obligation, not an act of kindness._ "So where is he now?" You ask, forgetting about her previous answer.

"Well, after you ate some of my ice cream, you fell asleep, so he let you sleep in his bed." She smiles happily. "He wanted to be sure that I was okay after he tucked you in, so he sat with me in my room, until I fell asleep. He's still passed out in the recliner beside my bed." A soft giggle escapes her lips - a nice, innocent sound that makes you smile and tears your heart in half at the same time.

 _He really cares about this kid,_ you think, incredulous. And the fact that he gave up his bed to ensure you would be comfortable is beyond words. You barely know the guy, and he's doing things like this? Why?

You glance towards the wall where the sculptures are, taking note of a window that you didn't notice before. It's a lot earlier than you realized - dawn, just barely. "What are you doing up?" You ask Thalia, raising a brow.

She shrugs, drumming her fingers against the comforter. "I was kind of hungry."

"Well, c'mon kiddo, let's get some food." You stand, offering her a hand. She takes it, giggling happily, and practically skips out into the living room. It's vast and open, and it hits you just how nice these suites are.

The living room is a wide space, with no walls other than those of the suite itself, and the ones that separate the bedrooms. The floor is lowered where the actual sitting area is, making it stand out against the flow of furniture around you. The only thing separating the kitchen is a bar, accented with pristine silver bar stools and a vase full of white roses. The furnishings are just as strange as the bedroom - conflicting shades of different colors speckle modern-styled furniture, set atop and beside one another in manners you'd never have considered before. More bundles of candles hang from the ceiling, surrounded by a swatch of mahogany mesh, providing light for the spaces untouched by the sunlight, which is beginning to filter in through the wall of windows that makes up the span of the room.

"What do you like?" You press your hands down against the counter as she slides into one of the barstools, and only now do you realize that you're wearing different clothes - a loose fitting, black t-shirt and elastic shorts. "Who changed me?"

"Hmm...what do we have?" Thalia rests her head in her hands, grinning childishly from ear to ear. "Oh! I helped you, so you wouldn't have to sleep in your training uniform. Uncle Mark gave you one of his shirts, and the shorts were in my room, but too big on me."

You nod, relieved. Mark hadn't dressed you, which is what you'd feared. You consider her question, tapping your chin in thought. "How about...pancakes?" 

She cheers, nodding happily. Her excitement is infectious, and you find that despite all of the last few day's events, you're grinning helplessly. It's nice, to have a moment like this - spending time with an incredibly sweet pre-teen and easing into your morning with pancakes. You fumble through the cabinets, of which have been pre-stocked, until you find all of the ingredients that you'll need - flour, sugar, milk, baking powder, salt, butter, and vegetable oil. You decide as you're mixing the batter that adding some fresh berries, of which you found in the fridge, would be delicious. Thalia is quick to agree, so you toss them in, and begin pouring the batter onto a pan in small circles. 

As you keep a watchful eye on your breakfast, flipping when need be, you try to engage Thalia in conversation. The topic of her hometown and family comes up, and you notice a small falter in her bubbly demeanor. "I grew up in a small house, with my mom and dad. Uncle Mark lived down the street. It wasn't extravagant at all, but I was okay with it." She sighs, playing with her own hands.

"You don't have to talk about this, honey." You shoot her a sympathetic look, but she smiles, looking up at you.

"No, it's okay! Talking helps, ya know?"

You don't know, actually. Your entire goal in existing up until this point has been to speak as little about your past or yourself as possible, so you'd never really opened up much. To your doctor, yes, but that's...different. You  _had_ to talk to her, if you wanted to 'get better.' Despite your thoughts, you nod, flipping the pancakes again.

"My mom and dad worked in a factory, near town square. The company made computer products, to be shipped to the Capital. There was an accident, though. The machines faltered and caught fire, and it spread quickly. They, uh..." She looks away, "Didn't make it out." You listen carefully, trying your best not to bleed sympathy. You know how much it bothers you when others attempt to. "Uncle Mark's raised me since I was eight, when it happened. He treats me like a princess, though." She offers a sad half-smile. 

You grab a couple of plates, preparing to put the pancakes on them, when she asks, "What about you?" You freeze, gripping the edge of the plate tightly, and try to steady your breathing. Despite your reluctance to talk about it, and your paranoia about giving away weaknesses to the other tributes, you figure that you at least owe this to her. 

Exhaling slowly, you try to organize the words in your mind, preparing yourself to say them out loud.

 

[Mark's POV]

He shifts uncomfortably in his sleep, stretching his legs out and attempting to curl up. Instead of reaching a comfortable position, he is greeted by the floor, which undoubtedly stirs him from his slumber. Groaning, he rolls over, realigning his glasses over the bridge of his nose. He blinks a couple of times, adjusting to the room around him.

Thalia isn't in her bed. 

Mark jolts upward, skimming the room hectically, and realizes that she isn't there at all.  _She must've gone to the bathroom or something._ He rolls the stiffness from his shoulders, sitting on the edge of Thalia's bed, and rubs tiredly at his eyes. Last night's events come rushing back to him all at once.  _I wonder if [Name] is still asleep._ As he pulls himself to his feet, he is astounded at just how tired he is. It's reasonable, considering Thalia's episode yesterday and then [Name]'s shortly after, both of which had left him riddled with worry.  _I hope they're both alright._

Grabbing for the door, he makes his way out into the hallway, only to stop dead in his tracks. Voices are filtering in from the kitchen, one soft and bubbly, the other tired and reluctant. It takes him only a moment to realize that the voice currently speaking is his niece's, and what she's saying makes his heart skip a beat. " _Uncle Mark's raised me since I was eight, when it happened. He treats me like a princess, though."_ There is a pause. " _What about you?"_

Mark can't help but feel a small ping of sympathy for [Name]. He's experienced firsthand how hesitant she is about speaking of herself, if she speaks at all. The fact that she's even  _talking_ to Thalia is astonishing enough, and yet, it doesn't surprise him. He's found that his niece tends to bring out the best in people, and it causes his heart to swell momentarily with pride. 

The long silence after Thalia's question speaks volumes. He's not entirely sure that she's going to respond at all when she starts speaking. " _I grew up in District One, which you already know. One of the wealthiest districts, I'll admit, but believe me, money isn't everything. Money is nothing."_

Mark is suddenly overwhelmed with the feeling that he's in the wrong here - he shouldn't be listening in on this, it's too private. Running his fingers through his mess of black floof, he decides to go take a shower. 

He can't hear the conversation from the bathroom, which is a good thing. It eases his conscience and gives him space to think. He remembers the feeling in his gut when the elevator doors opened, and how similar she had looked to Thalia in that moment. He hadn't said a word, only wrapped his arms around her and carried her into his suite. Thalia had been surprised, for sure, but she had quickly jumped at the opportunity to help. He'd known she would - she'd suffered the same things, so it is obvious that she'd know how it feels. 

[Name], on the other hand, had been a block of ice. Her skin had been so...cold, and the sounds she made as she breathed had made him panic a little himself. He'd gotten a blanket and bundled her up, holding her tight until she was breathing normally. And Thalia, being the sweet thing that she is, had even offered [Name] some ice cream. 

Mark smiles to himself as he slips his clothes off, turning the water on. The steam quickly begins to rise, and he steps in, sighing in relief as the warm water brushes across his skin. His smile quickly falters, however, when he remembers that girl from yesterday.  _Delphi,_ his brain whispers to him. He still isn't sure what she'd said to [Name], but it had been something important. That much he'd been able to tell from her sudden shift in personality. 

Delphi had been and continues to be right about one thing, he notices. [Name] is completely and utterly impossible to read, and he catches himself struggling to put her to any labels. When he'd thought that she'd be the silent, all-knowing type, she'd reached out to him for help. When she became ambitious, it quickly fizzled out. When he'd tried to open up, she'd shut down. When he had seen her at her most vulnerable, she'd been a shell of a person, hardly a personality type at all.

_She's completely and utterly unlike anything I've ever encountered before._

 

[Your POV]

You sprinkle a bit of the berries on top of the pancakes, and top them with a drizzle of honey. Sliding Thalia's plate in front of her, you continue with your story. "My father was a Peacekeeper stationed in my District, and my mother was an heiress, of sorts. Your typical love story and a half later, and I came along." You shrug. "Nothing interesting there. We lived just outside of town square. My dad would go about his duties, but my mom didn't really need to work, with her inherited fortune and whatnot. She liked to teach me things."

Thalia takes a bite, and after a moment, smiles in delight. "What kind of things?"

You consider her question. "The world around me. Animals, plants, people. She'd buy me all kinds of books, always insisting that the more I knew, the better a person I'd be." You smile faintly at the memory, taking a bite of your own pancakes. The flavor assaults your mouth pleasantly, and you shovel more in, savoring it as best as you can. "My dad was really into conspiracy stuff. He'd always complain about what the Capital was doing, new regulations that he thought were unfair or things he thought happened behind the scenes. He'd even talk to regular citizens about it, here and there. He was convinced that the government was up to something bad, always."

"What happened?" Thalia asks softly.

"Someone ratted him out. They must've said that he was associated with the rebellion in some way, and the way he talked about the government didn't do him any good." You pause, staring down at your food. You don't want to go on, but you owe it to the girl. The next few details get pretty gruesome, so you decide to sensor it as best as you can. "They, uh, decided to make an example of him. And my mother, by association. One night, during supper, they just stormed in, and they, uh..." Your voice cracks, but you stifle any emotions threatening to spill over before they can. "They killed him, and my mother, in front of me." That's putting it plainly. The real story is much,  _much_ more gruesome, but you can't bring yourself to describe the details to a  _child,_ so you leave it at that. 

Thalia gasps, her fork falling to the counter. You choke out the rest before she can offer any sympathy. "I was alone after that, and diagnosed with a few things. Mostly emotional trauma type stuff, big words that I don't need to butcher. You're a smart kid, you know what I mean, I imagine."

She nods slowly, dropping her eyes down to her plate. "I...I'm so sorry," She murmurs. 

You shake your head, offering her a half-hearted smile. "Don't sweat it, kiddo. It's over, it's been over." You both eat in silence for a few minutes, too stunned with one another to say anything else. Delphi's words begin to fill the silence, nagging at the back of your mind.

 _Be careful who you trust._ You begin to hope that sharing like this wasn't a mistake. As you think about it more and more, the uneasy feeling just won't leave you.  _Don't underestimate anyone._

You study Thalia out of the corner of your eye as she finishes up. Surely she can't be a threat, right? 

Caught up in your own thoughts, neither you nor Thalia notice the figure slipping into the bedroom, his figure obscured by a towel. Even if you had, it won't make a difference. He's just heard the last snippet of your conversation, despite his attempts not to, and his conflicting sympathy and despair are written plainly on his face.

You set your plate in the sink, staring down at it expectantly. You can't help but feel a bit relieved - relieving those words from your chest had opened up something that had been sealed shut before. What, you aren't sure, but you feel...lighter. 

"Thalia?" You ask suddenly, quietly. 

She looks up, and her eyes are a bit glossy. "Yeah?"

You offer her the warmest smile you believe you've ever worn. "Thank you."

 

 

 

 


	7. Hasty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, I know, but the next one will be looooong! Hopefully, Attickus won't prove to be of any trouble, right?

"You need to leave." The words slice through your mindless chatter with Thalia, halting every thought echoing through your brain, almost as if a cold, hard hand had just delivered you a stark slap in the face.

Mark has silently made his way into the room, so much so that you didn't take notice, and he now stands next to Thalia, a hand on her shoulder.

"Uncle Mark?" She says, clearly stunned by his sudden appearance. He looks exhausted - tired eyes and a disheveled floof to his wild black hair, his glasses slightly askew on the bridge of his nose. He looks as though he's showered, but it has done nothing to veil his fatigue. "What do you mean?"

"It's nothing personal, [Name], I just...," He sighs, disentangling his mop of hair with his fingers, "Tributes aren't supposed to mingle outside of the training arena and the Games themselves. I don't want you to get in trouble for being up here." 

You nod solemnly, trying to mask your...what  _is_ it, exactly? Disappointment?  _No, that's stupid. You should leave - no doubt they're going to come searching for you soon enough, and how is it going to look, being in_ his  _clothes, in_ his  _suite, talking to_ him?

"Thalia," You say suddenly. She perks up at her name, raising her gaze from her uncle to you. "Where'd you put my uniform? After you helped me, last night." 

She smiles, sliding off of the bar stool and runs off, hopefully to retrieve it. She's back within a heartbeat, clutching the ash gray material in her fist. "Here ya go!" She thrusts it into your hands with a devilishly sweet smile on her face.

"Thanks, kiddo," You say, avoiding Mark's eyes as you sulk back to your - well,  _his_ \- room. You change quickly, discarding his t-shirt, however comfy it may be, on the bed. The shorts you actually fold, and after a moment of thought, the shirt as well. The uniform is almost distressing to put back on, despite it being of stretchy, Nylon-like material. It's just not the same as the comfy clothes that you're used to.

As you're pulling the zipper up over your chest, someone knocks on the door. "Come in," You say, prying the elastic out of your knot of curly, slept-in hair. The door opens slowly, and Mark slips in, shutting it behind him. You shoot him a curious look, feeling a small fragment of unease creeping up your spine. You still can't bring yourself to really trust the guy, at least not completely. 

"I'm really sorry," He says, slowly, as if he's choosing his words carefully. "I just really don't want any of us to get into trouble. We're seeing our stylists today, or so I've heard, so it makes sense that they'd come looking for us soon. I can't imagine what they'd do if they found you, up here."

You sigh, securing your mass of pink hair into a tight bun. It's not the same as the elegant, braided ponytail that Blue had given you yesterday, but you almost like it better, because it feels more like routine. It's something normal to hold on to in this mess of change going on around you. 

You don't say anything. You're not entirely sure what you would say, if you could muster up the energy to do so. So, simply shaking your head, you release a steady, but willful, "It's okay, Mark. I understand." You check around you, trying to make sure that you aren't leaving anything behind, but you don't really recall bringing anything with you. You hadn't had anything of your own  _to_ bring, it is all back home. 

As you make your way towards the door, intent on getting back to your own suite, you feel a set of fingers wrap around your wrist, pulling you to a halt.

"Mark?"

"I didn't know what to do." Something about his tone has changed - he seems quieter, distant. When you turn to face him, he's staring at the ground, concentrating hard on something that you can't quite grasp. "When I saw you in the elevator, I wasn't sure what to do. Yeah, I help Thalia handle her attacks, but that's just... _different._ It's routine, because I'm used to them. You," He glances up, rubbing his hands over his face, "You really caught me off guard. Not just then, but in all ways."

"I'm just, uh...glad." You shrug awkwardly. "That it was you, and not...another tribute. It could have been a disaster if anyone had seen me like that." You know that it's not exactly what he means, and you know that you could  _definitely_ stand to respond to this situation a little better, but you can't. You can't open up to him, you can't return whatever growing concern he's found for you, you just  _can't._ This is a  _competition,_ and no matter how much you want to hug him and thank him and puke out your life story, you can't afford to, right now.

"Yeah, yeah." He scratches his head, whatever emotion he was trying to conceal before gone now. "Well, I'll, uh, let you get back, then. Before they come looking." 

You begin making your way to the door again, your fingers awkwardly fidgeting with one another. There's a tenseness to the room now, whose origin you can't possibly hope to identify.  _Why does he make me feel so uneasy?_ It's not the type of uneasiness where you feel as though you're in danger, but being around him ignites this fiery knot in the pit of your stomach that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. But, alas, now is not the time to be thinking about this. It's better done in private, in your own suite, where you can  _really_ figure out what's going on in your head. You pull open the door, stepping into the hallway, and pause for a moment, releasing a deep breath. 

"Mark?" You say quietly, peeking over your shoulder. 

He's standing in the same spot, engrossed by that same spot on the floor. He looks up when you speak, seemingly surprised that you're still here. "Yeah?"

"Thank you." You offer him a small smile, followed by a curt nod. "For helping me."

"No problem," He says, flashing a goofy, half-hearted grin. It's surprising, considering how somber he'd been a minute ago. Any trace of that is gone now, as if he's flipped a switch, returning to his typical, bubbly personality. You can see where Thalia gets that from, and it makes your smile grow a little. "Oh, and [Name]?"

"Yes?"

"Don't hesitate to come back, if it happens again. An attack, I mean." 

"Oh, uh, thanks. I won't. See you later, Mark." You close the door behind you, hoping it might cease any further conversation, because you're starting to feel anxious. You swiftly dodge furniture and decor on your way out, shouting a quick, "Bye Thalia!" as you go. Her response is a grin and a giddy wave, which is the last thing you see as the door swings shut. The elevator is just to your left, the only other set of doors in this hallway.

 _It seems a bit redundant to have a hallway here, if theirs is the only room on this floor._ You figure it's for privacy, which one wouldn't get if the elevator opened directly into the suite. As you make your way down to your own suite, you try to clear your thoughts, which are at a complete and utter disarray after the day's events thus far.  _And Mark said we're meeting with our stylists today, or so he'd heard. Does that mean that the tribute parade is tonight?_ If so, that would mean that the Games were growing ever closer - soon you'd go into training full-force, and then get evaluated, all of which would lead to the final event. The 115th annual Hunger Games, featuring yours truly. _  
_

As the doors slide open to your floor, you try desperately to swallow the lump of anxiety forming in your throat. This is going to be a nightmare.

Your suite is a replica of Mark and Thalia's, all except for the colors, which seem to be complimentary to your district. Not to mention everything is bedazzled with different types of gems - fake, or at least you hope - which makes sense, considering your district is that of luxury. 

A tall figure is sprawled out on the couch as you enter, chowing down on some sort of pastry. 

"Where have you been?"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One can only pray that your stylist is as sarcastic and lovely as Cinna, right?


	8. Audi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You may have more people on your side than you think.

Attickus sits up at your entrance, eyeing you over his bowl full of something that vaguely resembles soggy cereal. You ignore his question, quickly making your way down the hall, towards your bedroom. 

"Well fine then, don't respond," He mumbles grudgingly from behind you, "But you should probably know that our mentors are here. They're in the kitchen." 

Sure enough, when you glance over, you're met by the saccharine smile of none other than Brecken Crew, who is leaning over the edge of the bar. He extends a polished hand, as if the mannered gesture can somehow solidify a friendship between the to of you. "[Name], it's a pleasure to see you again, but I must insist on Attickus' question. Where _have_ you been?"

You swallow dryly, avoiding his eyes, and decide instead to study the woman beside him. She is tall, with a strong, stony face that somehow flatters her features. Her hair is a mess of black curls, chopped close to her cheekbones and completely shaved above her left ear. Her eyes are an icy blue that remind you faintly of your own district, much like the color of the gems that they pull from deep within the earth. She has a small, almost smug-looking smile on her lips, but somehow, in a manner that escapes you, it is not unfriendly. "Who is she?"

"My name is Audiela York, but you may call me Audi." Her accent is thicker than everyone else's, almost... _classier_ , in some way. She sounds like some of the people you see on old television shows, from before the Games, on the rare occasion that they show them.  _The accent is...Yitish, or something like that._ She doesn't bother extending a hand, but the gesture isn't arrogant. You can see that she's not one to execute actions that she deems unnecessary. "I won the 90th annual Games. I'm to be your mentor." 

You nod at her, a simple gesture in return for hers, and it almost appears as if she appreciates it. "I was exploring," You say simply, somehow braver in her presence.  _That's odd._

"You must be careful about that, [Name]." Brecken comes around the length of the bar, pulling out a stool a couple feet from where you stand. "You could get into trouble, and your actions reflect on the rest of us. Your district is held to a higher esteem than others."

"It's not like she's a Career or anything, Breck." Audi chuckles to herself, a soft, low sound that seems to echo from her chest more so than her throat. "No one really expects much of her at all. In or out of the ring." She glances to you at that, grinning wickedly. You decide quickly that you like this woman, very much. Something about her seems different, less... _pretentious_ than everyone else in the Capital, particularly Brecken.

"She doesn't mean that, there are many rooting for you." Brecken extends a hand, patting the top of your own with a facade of sympathy smeared across his face. 

"Please," Attickus mews cockily, "Everyone's rooting for me. I'm the Career here, and I didn't even have to volunteer. It's just meant to be."

 _Attickus is the other tribute from your district. Strong, and fast, but incredibly arrogant. It will get him killed._ Delphi's words echo through your head, stirring your spite and making you smile smugly to yourself. You sit in on a stool yourself, studying Audi closely. She doesn't notice, or else she pretends not to. "So we're meeting our stylists today?"

"Yes!" Brecken jumps at the question, quickly standing in an abrupt burst of energy. "Typically, the tributes meet their stylists the first night, and that's when the tribute parade is, and then move to training the next day, but they decided to try things differently this year. You got a taste of the training yesterday, and your official training begins today around lunch. You'll get a few hours in the arena, and then your evaluation will come shortly thereafter. The parade will be later tonight, and you will get your evaluation scores in the morning."

"Can't wait to smoke some Inferiors in the arena." Attickus grins, and it's so infuriating that your fingers curl tightly over one another in an effort not to reach for his neck. He looks to you, shrugging, "No offense."

"Yes, because both insulting and belittling me in one sentence can be wiped clean with a simple, 'no offense.'" You snap, taking both them and yourself by surprise.

Audi grins, tucking a black curl behind her right ear. "I like her. I don't see why everyone underestimates her abilities so much."

"Cause she's an Inferi-" Brecken stops cold, clearing his throat. "She's, em, not as strong as the others."

You've had enough of him  _and_ Attickus at this point. "You all realize that I'm quite aware of my own disadvantages, and that I'm also sitting  _right here,_ right? So stop playing false," You glance at Brecken, "As well as stupid," your eyes move to Attickus, then, "And let's get on with it. I'm capable of a  _lot_ more than you might think,  _sir._ "

Audi's grin only grows. "Did you find anything in the arena yesterday that you harbor some ability with?" She asks simply, tucking her hands into her pockets. She's wearing dark green cargo pants, lined with black leather at the waist and ankles. Her shirt is simple and black, much like the one Mark lent you, only it's sleeveless and decorated with a faded graphic print that you don't recognize. Her outfit looks like nothing else in the Capitol - being as plain as it is - and something about that makes you smile.

"I could hit the target with the spear. Not center, but a spear punctures any part of your body and it's gonna hurt, right?" You smile to yourself, a little proud. "I liked the daggers, too. They're lighter, and take up less room. I didn't get to see much else, but I'm sure I will today."

"Splendid," Brecken mutters, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. You aren't as thick as he might think - you know that he roots solely for Attickus, and no doubt believes you'll die within the first day of the Games. If you weren't going to apply yourself for Thalia, you might be doing it solely to spite him alone. 

"And you, Attickus?" Audi rips her soul-searching stare from your own and lets it slide over to your 'companion,' and the look in them makes you feel a little better about yourself. Where Brecken is impressed with Attickus, Audi is simply uninterested, and it's clear to you that she must have a similar view to Delphi. 

"I dabbled in a little of everything. Knives, swords, those weighted ball things. I was able to throw the third largest one." He smiles, flexing for affect.

Audi is, still, unimpressed. "And most career tributes who go for those can throw the  _first_ largest. Surely you found something better."

He seems to have taken an ego hit by the way his smile falters slightly. "I'm good in close combat. I beat the instructor four times."

"As I knew you would."  Brecken smirks proudly, settling back against the counter. "[Name], perhaps you should _really_ focus on your training today. To better your chances, of course." 

You're preparing a snappy comeback when Audi answers for you, her tone icier than yours would have been. "I believe she should focus on the survival stuff. Train a little more with the daggers, yes, but  _make sure_ that you're familiar with the basic stations. Building fires, making traps, camouflage. You're more likely to die of simple causes than by another tribute's blade."

You nod, her terms being quite agreeable. "You've got it."

"And me?" Attickus asks, quirking a manicured brow. He looks like a doll, almost, now that you've really looked at him. He's more of a pretty boy than a tribute, despite how broad his biceps may be. 

" _You?_ " She asks, laughing coldly. "Stop being so bloody arrogant, and you might survive a bit longer. Strength is nothing when there's air between your ears and a rod shoved tightly up your ass."

You choke out a laugh, quickly forcing your hands up over your lips in a weak attempt to smother the sound. Attickus' lips fall open in disbelief, his face turning a brilliant shade of red. Brecken attempts to stutter out a word in his defense, but Audi's own laugh cuts him off. 

"Both of you go shower up and make yourselves presentable," She says after she's calmed down from her fit of chuckles, "You're to see your stylist in a hour."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking two days on this one! I'm a sad trash king


	9. Visions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cue the super awesome movie training montage! =)

Red - the woman that prepped you on your first day - is who comes for you, leading you in solemn silence to the first floor, and through a couple doorways until eventually you land yourself in a pristine room with paneled walls. She offers you a small half-smile, moving her fingers in a small salute that makes you feel just a bit better about being down here, on your own. 

It feels as if you sit in this cold, stark room for all of five seconds before the door opens, and a short, muscular woman makes her way into the room. She would be very plain if her features weren't marred by an abstract palette of makeup - her lipstick is applied heavily in a simple, white shade, of which extends from the corners of her lips up to the inner corner of her eyes, whom are also heavily lined in a white, shimmery substance. This is outlined by streaks of silver and gold, that flow outward in arks across the length of her cheekbones, very nearly touching her hairline. She wears fake eyelashes, inches in length and a metallic gold color, tipped with little, feather-like decorations. They flow over her eyebrows, which are nearly non-existent and very clearly covered with some sort of foundation or powder, porcelain in color. Her hair is cropped very short, even shorter than Audi's, and spiked upward in a mohawk-like fashion, to better display the intricacy of the colored strands. Shades of blue, purple, green, and black, designed in such a way that her head resembles a peacock, and it is utterly magnificent. Her outfit is almost plain in comparison, despite how vastly 'out there' it may be on it's own. A short, pastel blue dress, with netting and mesh sticking out across the length of her hips, which are weighed down with layers of golden beading and belts. It's sleeveless, with a sweetheart cut and a beaded bodice. Quite beautiful, actually.

 "Hello, [Name]," She says, smiling warmly. Her voice is soft, like velvet. "My name is Cross. I've heard quite a few things about you."

You don't respond, for you're not entirely sure how to. That seems to be becoming a theme for you, here in the Capitol. You simply nod, a smile settling on your lips. 

"What I plan to do is very simple, but looks quite complex." She shifts her weight, moving soundlessly to the wall opposite the door, and taps her finger. A screen lights up, exposing file after file, all of which are fashion-themed. "You and Attickus are going to look magnificent."

Cross pauses on a photo, of two past District One tributes, dressed head to toe in sparkling gems. "See this? Too showy, and that's not a term I use lightly." She flashes a grin, moving through another set of photos. After a couple of albums pass, in bright, brilliant colors, she pauses again. "This is better, but not showy enough."

You move closer, attempting to get a better look. It's of a female tribute, wrapped in swatches of golden and ivory silks, that fall loosely about her thin frame. The silks are held together by a golden medallion on her left shoulder that faintly resembles a lioness. Her makeup is simple, but it glimmers brightly in the light. Her hair is a knot of blonde braids, looping over one another time and time again, before eventually falling into a waterfall of loose curls. A golden piece, encrusted with many different gems, settles simply across her forehead, pulling back over and around her head. She looks...well,  _great,_ but also slightly intimidating.

"I want you to share that power, you see? She looks elegant, like a goddess, but one wouldn't hesitate to believe that she could snap your neck if she squeezed hard enough. Do you see it?" 

"Yes," You murmur, glancing over at Cross. She has stepped back from the screen, and her eyes wander over your frame, irises nearly black against the stark whiteness of her face. 

"Good. We'll make Attickus a prestigious brute, and you, we will make a queen." She grins, revealing perfect, white teeth. Her manicured hands reach for your own, and she grips them tightly, stroking her thumbs across the back of your palms. "Now, you're to train. I'm not sure if your mentors have told you or not, and it's not really my place, but...," She sighs, "I'm really rooting for you, kid. Find your strengths, and keep them to yourself. No showing off, no displaying your talents, none of that. They'll look at you like a fresh kill, but you can't let it get to you. Save it for the evaluation, if you know what's good for you."

She steers you towards the door, where Red is waiting with a knowing smile on her face. You furrow your brows, a little befuddled - Red was the one questioning your ability the day you got here, just like the majority. Is she... _rooting_ for you, as Cross said she is, and Audi seems to be?

_Maybe I'm not as alone as I think._

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"What're you gonna train with?" Attickus' voice is a wave of decay in your ears, and you try your best not to physically cringe away from him. "Daggers, like Audi said? Or survival stuff?"

 _God, he's so_ loud, you groan internally, taking a deep breath to satiate your irritation. He's spewing your strategy for any prying ears to hear, as if he were asking the time or how nice the weather is. "Are you gonna work on your close combat? Or your ego, like Audi said?" You snap, without so much as a prick of guilt.

He huffs and strides off, meaning sweet, sweet victory for your patience. "Whatever."

You might have gone straight for the daggers, if Silver wasn't already there, throwing daggers to and fro as the targets light up in front of her. The machines are up and running today, meaning solely that training is going to be even  _more_ in depth and difficult than it already has been. Great. 

Sighing, you find yourself searching the faces of the tributes around you, looking for one - or two - in particular.  _No, I need to focus._ You need to do as Audi said, and hone your abilities as best as you can. You won't get another chance to do this, or anything else, if you don't focus. The only thing stopping you from waltzing up to the dagger station is the line of tributes and the nagging feeling in the depths of your mind. 

You clench and relax your fists, setting your eyes ahead - the spear exhibit. You're going to do this, and this unique determination that's boiling through your veins is going to help make it happen. It's as if the weapon is waiting for you when you approach, gleaming a soft silver and without any sort of line, which is somewhat surprising. You grasp it tightly, adjusting to the weight in your hands and the feel of the metal. Delphi's form is burned into the backs of your eyelids, and it takes hardly any time at all to recall just how she did it. 

Spreading your feet shoulder-length apart, you lift the spear over your right shoulder, using the angle of your palm around the shaft to aim it right where your eyes meet the target - the little red dot in the center of the chest. You take a deep breath, letting the tenseness leave your body, and pull back slightly. After a moment of preparing your muscles, you arch your back and  _throw,_ watching as the spear spins and flies before slicing through a thin yellow line. It's not the red, but it's closer than the blue ring you're used to hitting. 

Instead of retrieving this one, you grab another from the rack, unable to think of anything else. Something is burning under your skin, and you're so overwhelmed with just pure  _determination_ that you can't bring yourself to stop. You repeat the stance, paying extra attention to the way you flick your wrist, and release, fixated on the silvery point as it sails through the air, burying itself in the dummy once more.

Something blurs across your vision, and you feel a weight settle heavily on your shoulders, trying to push you down. For a second, just as the spear had sliced through the material of the target, you'd seen something positively heart-wrenching. Right there, for just a moment, you'd been so caught up in your own fierce determination to hit that red that you had let something in that you hadn't seen in a while.

The next spear slips from your fingers as easily as it came, clattering loudly to the floor, but your focus is elsewhere. Where the dummy was a second ago, a body stands instead, fixed into place by the spear that's just impaled it's chest. Your eyes widen in horror, watching as blood begins pumping from the wound, drenching his shirt and then his pants, before falling quietly to the floor.  _Drip._

You look up slowly, and cry out, clenching your hands tightly over your mouth in a vain attempt to smother your terror. Glasses, askew across the bridge of his nose. Floofy hair - messy, voluminous, and just so tempting to  _touch_ \- sullied, flattened in a way that's just  _wrong._ Chocolate eyes, open wide in horror and caution, trained downwards at the gaping hole in his stomach.

You're utterly frozen, utterly numb, unable to do much else but stand there in horror as he very well bleeds to death, unless the wound does him in first. Blood is everywhere and all you want to do is  _scream_ -

"[Name]?"

You jump, fingers curling tightly around the spear in your hand.  _What the fuck did I just see?_ Mark stands there, holding a hand up as if he's been waving it in front of your face. He looks genuinely concerned, and the emotion pulls taught at his soft features.

"You with me now?" He asks, taking a step closer. 

You blink, rubbing your free hand over your face, and lower the spear promptly to it's slot on the rack. "I'm, uh...I'm...," You stutter, not sure what you are. The image is burned into your mind, of  _him,_ the guy standing right in front of you, in perfect health and  _without_ a giant spear protruding from his chest.  _What was that supposed to be? My mind telling me to chill the hell out, or...? Or..._

"You looked, uh, terrified, for a second there," He says, his hands in his pockets. He's not looking at you, but instead at the dummy, who has two spears projecting from it's torso. "I wasn't sure what was happening."

"I'm fine," You mutter curtly, grabbing the spear again. You take a step away from him and launch it, paying no particular attention to your form. It sails again, and as it does, you feel a small spark of panic ignite in your gut.  _What if I see it again?_ You don't, thankfully, but can't mask your surprise as the spear punctures the throat of the dummy, taking the head clean off.

"Well someone's been training." Mark's voice is quiet, and slightly unnerving. He seems like he's trying to figure you out again, with that ' _I'm putting you into a box because I play video games and that's how you win'_ look of his. "I'll, um, leave you to it then." 

You're too stunned to say anything. That... _whatever_ you just saw is plaguing your mind, burning it's way into your very fiber of being. 

"What the fuck?"

 

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Hours pass, and you've managed to hit every station that you'd originally planned on, focusing mainly on the survival stuff as Audi said to. It came a lot easier than you had thought it would, leaving you with a hopeful sense of self-empowerment. As yesterday, an announcement comes on overhead a few hours into your practice - which has started to be one of those hopeful training montages in your own mind - to dismiss all tributes back to their suites. 

Audi and Brecken are there when you arrive, lounging carelessly on the couches. You get there right after Attickus, judging by the way he's standing just inside the doorway when you pull it open. He gives you a once-over without so much as a smirk, replacing the fond expression for a scowl and a huff.

"Ah, yes, there you both are," Audi says, standing to greet you. She has that familiar smirk on her face, the one makes you feel believed in. "I assume your training went well?"

"Of course it did," Attickus huffs, sounding remarkably defeated. He takes a seat in a small, comfortable recliner, just to the left of the couch. "I hit more bullseyes than anyone else in the sword arena." 

"I'm sure." Audi doesn't even try to mask her indifference to his training. "And you, [Name]?"

"It went fairly well," You say quietly. The image of Mark, with a spear protruding viciously from his abdomen while blood spills in gallons to the floor, is still burned onto the backs of your eyelids. "I learned a lot of stuff. Got better with a few weapons, too."

She looks as if she's going to inquire as to just  _what_ you learned, but changes her mind, stalking off towards the kitchen. Brecken is oddly quiet - he's leaning over the coffee table, elbows resting on his knees, and staring intently at a spot on the floor. His thought process is written extravagantly across his face, but you haven't the slightest idea as to  _what_ he's considering so harshly.

"Well, your evaluation is going to be very soon," Audi calls from the kitchen, returning after just a moment with a mug in her hand, "And you both need to do well. A high score means sponsors, and regardless of how good you may or may not be, they are the key to success."

"How soon is 'soon'?" Attickus asks, running his fingers through his hair. 

"Well, half an hour at most. Probably sometime around-"

" _All tributes please report to the training arena."_ _  
_

"Or now." She lifts her mug to her lips, making eye contact with you. "Do well. I believe in you."


	10. Something Better

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To put it plainly, you're a bit of a...well, surprise. Cue the badass montage.
> 
> As always, your name is [Name], enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the wait! My computer came down with some pretty bad viruses, but we should be all clear now. Short chapter, but the next will be longer, and more suspenseful! Time for a bit of excitement, yes? =)

"Wanna tell me what the hell you did in there?" Brecken hisses as you shove your way past Attickus, heading straight for the kitchen. You could really use a drink, you know, to wash down the prideful lump in your throat. You can't contain the grin that spreads across your lips as you do so, and it only makes him angrier. "You did something, I know it. Something bad, right?"

Attickus is chuckling himself, trying to smother the sound with those big man-hands of his. Brecken's face turns a delightful shade of red as he studies the two of you, veins pulsing in his neck. "Do you  _realize_ that one misstep could cost us? If you go around screwing things up around every turn, you are going to be in some  _very_ deep shit, [Name]."

"Relax," You say calmly, leaning back against the counter with a metallic silver mug pressed to your lips. "I did well, I think."

Audi comes into the room at that moment, and it only takes one look at Brecken's face to make her burst out laughing, without so much as a single attempt to cover it. "I don't know what you did, either, but please, do it again. I'd give anything to see this face," She pointed to Brecken, "On a regular basis."

Brecken looks as if he's about to explode out of his skin. "Oh, ha ha, right? Let's all joke around and laugh and forget just how dire this situation is."

Audi shakes her head, smiling in amusement. "Like [Name] said, relax. Everything is fine. She just surprised them, is all. Now, with what, I have no idea, but they couldn't stop talking about you." She looks to you, a prideful expression marring her features. 

You grin into the rim of your mug, a new rush of satisfaction igniting under your skin. In truth, the entire evaluation had been a blur. You'd thrown a few spears, tossed a few daggers, shown what you'd learned of survival. The real sight to see had come when you'd finished, and only a handful of the judges had been looking, whereas the rest had been milling about themselves, eating and talking the day away.

In a fit of frustration, you'd grabbed a dagger from the weapon rack and approached a dummy, shoving the tip into the fleshy material on the face. ' _The Games,'_ you'd carved, earning a few surprised gasps from those paying attention. That had stirred the rest, and soon, all eyes had been on you, watching as you made a show of carving into the neck and torso, stopping just above where the hips of the dummy would be, if it had been a full-body mannequin. After that, you'd grabbed a spear, arching it over your shoulder and watching as it - in a stroke of pure luck - made a line straight for the dummy's neck, dislodging the head entirely. It rolled to the floor, and the room was so silent that the sickening crack it made when it hit echoed a few times.

You'd turned to face them, making a show of twirling the dagger around your fingers. "You made a show of my parents." You'd said, voice emotionless and edged with pure steel. "And now I'm going to make a show of your Games."

Of course, none of this you plan to share with them, at least not yet. So, you take another sip from your mug and sit back, looking over the rim at them with mischievous, thrilling eyes. In some short, amazing span of time, you've shed your anxiety-riddled exterior and replaced it with something...harder, stronger. Something more clever. Something  _better._

Now, that isn't to say that your anxiety is gone. It's simply been covered by something else, some new film, like the layers of an onion. 

You are slowly becoming something other than an Inferior. Not a Superior, not by far, but maybe that's for the better.


	11. Parade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You are pretty magnificent, to say the least. As always, [Name] is your name, of course! Enjoy!

"Alright," Cross says, her electric blue lips spreading into a saccharine smile, though one not quite as malicious as Brecken's. "You both are going to look magnificent." She takes a step back as if to admire her work, and claps her hands in praise, eyes alive with the thrill of the parade.

You shift, trying to settle your... _costume_ comfortably on your shoulders. It truly is _quite_ beautiful, and you can't help but smile back at her, happy to be wearing something so...well,  _shiny._ It's a dress of flowing silk, ivory in hue and utterly soft to the touch, that cascades in waves down to your hips, where it splits, revealing your legs. The rest of the material has been fastened behind you, to drape down in what might resemble a cape, of sorts, but it only falls to the side where it is fastened. The back of the dress itself is completely open, all the way down to your hips, and decorated by a single, encrusted chain that runs the length of your spine. The silk is clasped together above your left shoulder by a golden lioness statuette, crouched in a stalking position and undeniably majestic looking. Around your ribs, there is a set of golden chains, decorated with many jewel encrusted charms and other various stones that flash and sparkle every time the light hits them, and pull the material taught, to give you more of an hourglass figure. The lioness sits on a nest of similar chains, that fall across the front of the bodice and cascade just over your shoulder, creating a false, metal sleeve, of sorts. You have similar jewelry on your legs - long, twisting vine-like things, coated with gold, that travel from your ankles to your knees. Your shoes seem almost simple in comparison, but rightfully so. They are simple golden heels, not too high but not exactly low enough for your taste. The dress is one of the most beautiful things you've ever seen, and you can't help but feel like a goddess in it.

Attickus matches you, in a more masculine way. He wears a jewel-encrusted gladiator helmet, with plumes of ivory feathers jutting from the center in a mohawk fashion, the tips of which seem to have been dipped in gold. His armor is also ivory, with golden entrails of leaf-like designs running across the breast plate and the exterior of every other plate. He has a golden stretch of silk secured to both of his shoulders by lion heads, mouths enlarged in a roar, that drapes down his back and then some. He looks ready to take on the world, to say the least. 

" _And,"_ Cross drags out the word, pulling her hands away from your face, "I am done with your makeup!"

She spins you around to view a mirror on the wall to your left, and what you see makes your breath catch in your throat. You look...just  _wow._ To put it as plainly as you can, she's made you look like some sort of majestic, beautiful, bird-like goddess. Your eyes are decorated with various shades of blue, purple, and green, and heavily lined with both black and silver eyeliner. It travels outward from your eye in sharp points, before twisting and manifesting into fluttering birds and leaves across your temples. There are strokes of gold along your inner eye, creating a sharp point that extends halfway down the length of your nose. Your eyelashes are fake, but beautiful, with long, golden points that span upwards in bundles of little, down-like feathers. Your lips are covered in a metallic color somewhere between gold and blue, electric and striking and just as magnificent as the rest of you. Your hair has been tied up in a series of complex curls, twisted into a bun of sorts, with curls cascading out of it everywhere. Tied around the bun is a chain of golden leaves, that seem to be pressed into your hair securely by something you can't quite see. You look  _beautiful,_ and also terrifying, which only fuels your fire. _  
_

"Do you love it?" Cross asks excitedly, clasping her hands together just under her chin. She looks a lot plainer than she did yesterday, save for her peacock hair - her makeup is simply silver eyeliner and lots of blush, and her outfit is a black nylon suit, much like your training uniform, that plumes outward along her hips like a skirt. She still looks gorgeous, despite her change of attire. 

"I do," You say quietly, too stunned to put much energy into your words. You slowly break into a smile, and the expression is stark in contrast to what it might of been, had you been wearing nothing on your face. "I really, really do."

"Splendid!" Cross pats your shoulder affectionately, and marches off to handle something else. Before she makes it to the door, she stops, turning around as if she'd forgotten something. "Oh! Before I forget, when you get out there, I have a surprise, of sorts."

Cross makes her way back, pulling you and Attickus in close. "There's a button on the side of your bracelets, here," She motions to your bangles, as well as Attickus' wrist bands, and reveals a small, black button. "Activate it when you're in full sight of everyone else. Believe me, it'll be quite a sight." She grins that saccharine smile again, before taking her leave, leaving you and Attickus to ponder this  _surprise._

"Ready?" Attickus asks, glancing over at you. His usual arrogant demeanor is gone for the moment, replaced by something quieter and more tolerable. He seems a bit worried, actually.

"Ready."

The two of you make your way into the hallway, where a small, chariot-like thing awaits you. It is a tight space, due to the fact that the hall has been divided into twelve spaces, one for each set of tributes. They have set up some sort of thick film, to prevent the tributes from seeing one another, so the only thing that is visible to the two of you is the opening ahead - it's fairly dark in this hall, and the only source of light filters in from the opening itself, which leads directly to the stadium. You can hear so much noise, from the mouths of thousands of people, all waiting for the twenty four of you to parade out in front of them.

You look at Attickus, offering what might be the only smile you've ever directed his way, and grasp the ends of the chariot, pulling yourself up onto it. It fits your costumes, and well. 

"Here we go." The chariots begin rolling forward not a moment after Attickus pulls himself up, and the two of you grasp anxiously at the front, watching as the mouth of the hallway grows larger and larger. You take an anxious breath, fingers finding the button on your bangles, so that you're ready to press them. 

As the crowd slowly comes into view, you feel anxiety settle deep within your bones, but put on a stark, courageous face as best as you can. Roars go up the second that your chariot enters the stadium, and as more and more people see your costumes, it gets louder and louder, until you're sure that your eardrums are going to bust. There are people, everywhere in sight, just waves and waves of body after body, all looking at you.

"Do we press it now?" Attickus asks, straining to be heard over the crowd.

You nod, and the two of you brush your fingers over the buttons, pressing down abruptly. Nothing happens, for a moment, and then everything explodes.

Sparks begin shooting from your heads, and you feel the headband that's wrapped around your hair loosen, allowing what feels like feathers to shoot straight up, like the covert feathers of a male peacock. But there's something else, too. You feel as though little pores in your dress have opened, and right before your eyes, a substance begins to creep across your skin.

You look to Attickus with wide eyes, only to find that he's experiencing the same thing. Little tendrils of gold are wrapping around your arms and necks and every visible space of skin, spanning out and expanding until it looks like you've been dipped in gold. The same is happening to him, which your are almost thankful for, because it means you aren't alone and you can see just  _what_ is happening. He's beginning to look like a statue, plated with gold and ready for war. 

When you glance down, your arms have been completely covered, and what looks like little jewels have sprung up on top of the substance, making you appear like a real, true goddess - here you are, covered head to toe in molten gold and bejeweled. 

The crowd is screaming now, and when you finally manage to tear your eyes from your skin, you see that they are all pointing and cheering in your direction. You can't help the grin that is weaving itself into your expression, and soon you're laughing, for in this moment, you feel  _seen_ , not ignored. 

Attickus raises his arms, which glitter and sparkle in the light, and releases a shout much like a battle cry. He's also grinning wildly, and for once, you don't want to sock him in the face.

The chariots continue on, but you can't bring yourself to glance back at the other tributes. You can only focus ahead, to where the President himself sits, watching all of the chaos below. His eyes are trained forward, but from this distance, you can't see if he's looking at you. It doesn't really matter, though, because you don't strive for his admiration. 

After a small span of rolling forward and listening to the triumphant cheers of the specters around you, the chariots come to a stop, forming a u-shape on the platform in front of the President's viewing balcony. 

"Attention!" he shouts into his microphone, and the crowd falls silent almost instantaneously. "Who's excited for the 115th Annual Hunger Games?"

A brief chorus of cheers goes up, and can't help but notice that none of these cheers belong to the tributes around you, save for a couple of Careers. 

President Lucius takes that as a cue to silence them again, and continues on. "I'm sure it will be a very special one. From what I've heard, we have quite n interesting array of tributes this year." He looks down at all of you, and something about his expression silences any sprigs of hope you might have had moments ago. He dives into a long explanation about the previous year's Games, and how he's so thrilled to see this one. His speech feels as though it goes on for hours, and you can't help but begin to feel very, very uneasy.

You manage to tear your eyes away long enough to look at the tributes around you, and your eyes quickly find Mark. He's two chariots down from you, and his gaze is boring into your own. He and Thalia look so... _regal,_ truly. Their hair has been slicked back with some metallic substance, making it look more like networks of wires than anything else. Their skin is a papery white color, but shiny, like some sort of metal, accented by geometric strokes of white and black liner. They both look like they've just waltzed out of a computer screen, especially due to the fact that their outfits are suits of metallic silver, with LED lights wired into various joints and plates. And Mark, he looks...you can't describe it.

He has yet to stop staring, and you feel a bit of heat creeping up the back of your neck. You break eye contact just long enough to calm down enough - the intensity of holding gazes with someone isn't something you particularly favor, and something about his complexity of his expression makes it even more severe.

When you look back up, you notice that he's mouthing something at you. It takes you a second to understand, being that you're quite a distance from him and it's hard to read lips in general. 

" _Suite."_

 _Suite? What does he mean by suite?_ You frown, confused, and shoot him another look. He seems to sigh, and glances over his shoulder, clearly hoping he's not drawing attention to himself. 

" _Tonight."_

 _Does he want me to come to his suite tonight?_ That heat on the back of your neck returns, and for a moment, you're too stunned to say anything. Why would he want you to come to his suite?  _Don't be stupid, he probably just wants to talk about something._ You shake your head, trying to clear your thoughts, and shoot him a smile to let him know you understand. His lips curve upward into a goofy grin, and you can't help but chuckle quietly to yourself. 

"[Name]?" Attickus has grabbed your wrist, and shakes you gently to get your attention. 

You look up, frowning at him, and notice that the other tributes are beginning to trickle out of the arena. "Oh, we're leaving, sorry." You mumble, grabbing hold of the chariot as it begins to move again. You can't help but wonder what Mark wants to talk about. Has something happened?

As your chariot pulls around out of the stadium, a rush of people approach you and Attickus, faces lit with excitement. "You guys looked so cool!" and "District One really brought their a-game!" Are among the things they shout, but you aren't focused on them. You're focused on Mark, who is making his way through the crowd, eyes trained on you. 

He opens his mouth to say something, but he's cut off by Cross, who has suddenly appeared among the crowd. She grabs your arms, practically beaming, and jumps in excitement.

"[Name], Attickus, that was  _magnificent_!" She cheers, her eyes bright and alive. Mark shoots you an apologetic look and backs away, waving briefly. You ache to reach out to him and let him talk, but you know that there's no getting past Cross as of now. "You looked simply brilliant, really. Like a god and a goddess carved out of gold." 

Attickus is donning that wicked grin of his, and flexes his muscles for affect, earning a dismissive eye roll from Audi, who has appeared as well. She is also beaming, but the expression isn't as big on her face as on Cross'.

You don't really pay attention to the conversation. You respond when they call your name with one worded replies and try your best to look interested, but it's not a very convincing act. You've struck a realization, and it's weighing down on you like a thousand tons. If the tribute parade was tonight, that means that the Games are tomorrow.  _Tomorrow._

Any positive emotions you'd been feeling up until this point suddenly melt away, and you feel anxiety creeping into your bloodstream. You could die tomorrow. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's about to get pretttty intense. You're gonna throw down.


	12. The Games

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Games begin, and you're not entirely sure how long you're going to last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long! I've been very busy with marching band, and I just managed to get a chapter done. So here it is! As always, your name is [Name], enjoy!

"People really believe in you." Mark says, looking at you over the rim of his glass. He's settled on the couch across from you, with Thalia slumped in the armchair to his left. She looks as though she's ready to pass out, but you know that she's holding out long enough to see you off.

She bounces up as if on cue, her face lit with excitement. "You looked so cool!" She says, so bubbly that it almost hurts. 

You smile, feeling a bit of heat creeping up the back of your neck. "Thank you." You murmur quietly, looking down at your hands.

She doesn't stop there, and you can tell that Mark wants to continue what he was saying, but he waits patiently for her rant to end. "You looked like a...a goddess! A princess!" She's looking at you with wide eyes now, and the idolization that you see reflecting in them makes your heart swell. "I kept telling Uncle Mark, but I don't think he heard me. He must have agreed, though, cause he kept staring at you."

You laugh, and you can't help but notice the redness that spreads across his cheeks.

"Uh, Thalia," He says, attempting to clear his throat, "Can you give us a minute?" He scratches at his head, embarrassed. 

Thalia nods, bouncing up out of her chair. "Sure thing!" 

You smile to yourself at how sweet she is, watching her disappear down the hallway. Mark interrupts you from your thoughts with his sudden change of expression. "Listen, [Name]. I need to ask something of you."

You look up, offering a confused smile. You're not entirely sure what he could possibly need from you, or what you'd have to give him. "What is it?"

"Like I said, people like you," He sighs, rubbing his hands over his face, "I'm not going to make it very long. I'm not an underdog that people root for and I don't stand out. I just...," He looks up at you then, his eyes tired. "I need you to look after Thalia. If I get killed off, or injured...I need you to make sure that she's okay."

You look at him, eyes wide. "Mark, I-"

"You don't have to promise me, or anything. I know that things happen, and it's not always under our control, but I...I need to do this, or at least try. For Tom."

You sigh, looking down at your hands. What are you supposed to say to that? ' _Why yes, Mark, of course I can work against all odds to help your niece win._ It's not a selfish thought, you just don't think you can make such a heavy commitment without weighing your options. You've never known yourself to be so selfless, and even though you want to, you just can't bring yourself to make that promise, so you're happy he understands.

"I'll try my best," You say at last, looking up at him.

He smiles, leaning back on the couch with his hands crossed over one another. "Thank you. That's all I ask."

You can't help but feel like a wolf in sheep's clothing as you smile back, swallowing the lump of doubt in your throat.

\--

You're all leaning on the edges of your seats as the screen begins to roll through the evaluation scores. You desperately want to know how well you did - not because you're concerned of your own ability, but because you want to know how much help you'll get in the actual arena.

"From District One, our male tribute, Attickus. His final evaluation score is...," The interviewer smiles, looking pleasantly surprised. "Ten."

Attickus lets out a cheer, followed by a series of enthusiastic claps from Brecken and half-assed ones from Audi, which makes you smile.

"From District One, our female tribute, [Name]. Her final evaluation score is...," The interviewer's face goes white. "In a surprising turn of events, [Name] resides as our highest scoring Inferior in history, at a solid eleven."

Audi erupts into cheers, as do Brecken and Attickus, who are both staring at you with the same wide eyes. You're beyond words yourself - you had thought you'd have gotten a five, at most. Most of your throws had been off, except for that one perfect one at the end, and frankly, Inferiors didn't have high expectations.

With everyone cheering around you, you can't help but break into a giant grin yourself - you just might be able to do this.

Audi claps a hand on your shoulder, smiling down at you proudly. "You did it, kid. You're golden."

\--

"Alright, [Name], things are getting real now." Cross places a hand on your cheek, looking up at you with her heavily rimmed kohl eyes. "But you did well in your evaluation, and as long as you're smart, you really have a chance."

She moves away from you for a moment, done fussing with the buttons of your arena uniform, and grabs something from a table across the room. When she turns around, there's a wicked grin on her face. She holds up whatever was in her hands - it's a small, peacock-colored feather pendant, which is attached to a slim silver chain.

"To remember me by," She says as she loops it around your neck, patting your shoulders and looking up at you once more. "But this isn't goodbye. I have faith in you." Cross takes a deep breath, seeming almost sad. "Now go on, the tube is waiting for you. The Games start in a few minutes."

She guides you to a slender, cylindrical tube in the corner of the room, with an extended platform just waiting for you. You turn before you get in, wrapping the little, colorful woman into a tight hug.

"Thank you," You say, adding no further explanation. She plants a soft kiss on your cheek and smiles proudly, her eyes lit with something you can't identify.

"You can pay me back when you return to us." Cross gives you a pat on the arm and gently pushes you towards the tube, her eyes glistening.

You smile and wave, stepping back onto the platform. A little bell sounds somewhere above you and it retracts, pulling you back into the tub and shutting firmly in front of you, successfully sealing you in. You place your hands against the glass, feeling your heart jump to your throat as it begins to move.

Cross waves, and turns away before you fully disappear. You can't help but feel incredibly anxious - it feels real now, and you are slowly, but surely, being lifted to your possible death. One misstep, and you could be blown to pieces. How are you supposed to face that bravely?

Light begins to filter in above you, and when you look up, you can see clouds. Come to think of it, the sky is getting closer. That means that the arena is mere feet above your head, and the Games, mere seconds.

Slowly, you slide up to the surface, and you can see little platforms all around you, with other tributes slowly raising from them. There's a giant clock hologram above your heads, and it's ticking down quickly. _15...14...13..._

You look around wildly - Attickus is coming up to your left, and across the arena, you can just make out a head of disheveled hair and glasses. 

_10...9..._

The platforms are all level now, and you know that one step too far could set off a string of explosions. You squeeze your fingers together tightly, anxiety bubbling in your veins. 

_6...5..._

" _You ready?"_ Attickus shouts, cupping his hands around his mouth so you hear him. You can't even bring yourself to look his way - you aren't ready, not in the slightest.

_3...2..._

You roll out your shoulders, a plan solidifying in the walls of your mind - you're going to make a run for it. Screw the cornucopia. When you look around, you notice backpacks strewn across the bare edges of the clearing, making for easy targets in a hasty escape into the woods. It's a much safer bet than trying to fight your way to better supplies.

You glance up at the countdown clock, and your heart nearly stops.

_...1...  
_

You attempt to take a deep breath, but it's not coming.

Then a cannon blows.

 


	13. First Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You spend your first night in the Arena, and it's a little calmer than you might have expected. However, that won't last long, and many hardships await you in the days to come. 
> 
> As always, your name is [Name], enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry these chapters are so sparse! I'm trying to develop a schedule, considering I have school and marching band, but I'm getting back into it, I swear!

You're running, faster than you've ever run in your life. You aren't even aware of how you're breathing, or how you're managing to push your legs this hard, or how you aren't tripping on roots every few steps. The only thing on your mind is the fact that you have to get as far away as you can.

And yet, something is nagging at the back of your mind. _Find Mark. Find Thalia. Protect Thalia._

You clench the backpack tightly in your fist, only slowing when you're sure you've gone a safe distance from the cornucopia, and brace your hands over your knees in an attempt to catch your breath. Taking a moment to get your bearings, you look around, trying to gauge just where you are. You're surrounded completely by trees, and the brush at your feet is unbearably thick. You need a game plan.

You decide to sit down behind a thick clump of bushes, figuring you'll be well hidden long enough to see what you snagged. You cross your legs, tugging at the straps at the top of the bag, praying that it's something useful. Inside, you find a rain jacket, a small set of knives, and upon further inspection, some rope, a canteen, and a small capsule of some gel-like substance you can't identify.

You're only there for a moment when you hear something off to your right, so you put everything back in your bag and tuck yourself behind the tree, hoping it hides you well. You hold your breath for a moment - things are very real now, and you could die any minute. You don't want it to be within seconds of starting the Games. Or at all, preferably.

A hare appears out of the brush at your feet, unaware of the fact that you're standing within feet of it. You flick your fingers over the bag again, retrieving one of the small blades from inside, and with a flick of your wrist, you make an attempt at dinner. A failed attempt, you see, as the dagger buries itself into the dirt. The hare goes flying into the brush, and you curse under your breath, upset that not only have you just missed a meal opportunity, but you're not proving yourself to those watching.

You grab your dagger and make for where the trees are thicker, hoping it might offer you some kind of shelter from both the weather and the other tributes. Perhaps you'll even manage to get some sleep, assuming you find a place fit for a camp, however temporary it may be. That is, also assuming you survive long enough to make one.

It's strange being on your own, but after what feels like hours of trudging through the woods, you decide that it may be better. The fewer people you have around you, the longer you'll live, and that means you don't have to entrust anyone not to betray you, right? Despite your thoughts, you can't help but wonder how Thalia and Mark are doing, and if they're together. You can't imagine Mark would have let her wander off on her own, but you don't know how things went after you fled the cornucopia. For all you know, they could both already be dead.

As night begins to fall above you, you decide to set up camp somewhere inconspicuous - you hadn't seen anyone since you'd set out on your walk, and you figure that it's a pretty big arena, so you might be safe enough as long as you're careful. A tree might do the trick, if you can get high enough without breaking your neck. Of course, dying on accident in a competition where people are trying to kill you seems like some stroke of bad luck that might befall you, based on your record of misfortune. 

After eyeing a few trees, you scratch that idea, and decide to set up camp in a little crook you'd managed to find while on the hunt. It looks as though it served as a den of some sort at one point, for something small, like a fox. It's just large enough that you figure you can tuck yourself into it without sticking out, and small enough that one wouldn't suspect anyone would be inside of it.

Checking for your knives, you make sure they're tucked securely into your jacket before shoving your backpack into the hole, following shortly after it. It's a tight fit, but it works, and after reaching your hand out awkwardly and shuffling some leaves and decently sized twigs, you make the opening look natural enough that it puts your weary mind at ease. Or at least as 'at ease' as one could be in this situation. Night is coming quickly, and you hope that if you lay still, you'll not only blend in, but manage to fall asleep sometime soon.

 

\--

 

The sky is a dull shade of violet when you wake up - not quite dawn, but somewhere in the early hours of the morning. There's someone moving close to your little crook in the ground, and it sounds close enough that it ignites a familiar panic in your bones. You try to look up as best as you can without moving too much, and after a few attempts, you manage to peek over the edge of hood you'd pulled over your face. 

It's hard to make out who it is in the dim light, but you don't think that they see you, and in reality, that's what matters most.

"It looks like someone was here," It's a soft voice, and if you hadn't been holding your breath, you might not have heard it. It's a woman, definitely, and rather young, from what you can tell. Not quite Thalia young, but not as old as some of the contestants.

There's a pause before you hear a response. "Do you think it was her?" _Oh, god, it's him._

You lift yourself as quietly as possible, still too cautious to just come climbing out of the hole with a big, welcoming smile on your face. However, with a bit of effort, you manage to pull yourself up enough to make out three figures, all of which you welcome with open arms.

"Have you been tracking me?" You ask softly, fingers gripping the handle of your knife inside the material of your jacket, just in case.

There's a pause, and then a very hushed, "[Name]!" Thalia rushes forwards as quietly as she can, throwing her arms around you and hugging you tightly.

"I didn't see where you went, when the Games started." Mark steps forward as well, and it looks as though he's aged ten years. His hair is a disheveled mess, his glasses are scratched in one lens, and his chocolate brown eyes are tired. "I was...well, I was worried." He lets out what you assume is a sigh of relief, attempting to tame his locks with one hand.

"I did the tracking." Delphi, the source of the female voice from before, is a few steps behind Mark, leaning against a tree. "It wasn't too difficult."

You swallow a nervous lump in your throat, trying to contain the anxiety that's creeping up your veins. "I thought I did pretty well for myself."

Mark offers a sheepish smile, folding his hands together. "Oh, you did. We were looking for hours." He hesitates a moment, before pulling you in and giving you a tight squeeze. "I wouldn't have thought to look in a hole in the ground, I'll admit."

Thalia grins, looking up at you. "I'm just glad we found you!"

Her exclamation is quickly followed by a chorus of "shh!"s and "quiet!"s, particularly from Delphi. She seems a bit off to you, but then again, you met the strange woman days ago, and she'd always acted like this. Distant, knowing, and astoundingly omnipresent.

You all decide to get going, and after what feels like an hour or two of walking, you begin to see light creeping up over the trees. 

"We're gonna need food soon," Mark says, rattling off on his fingers, "And a stable supply of water. Not to mention some sort of decent shelter."

You nod, but as you follow behind him, Thalia in tow, you can't help but notice the strange way he's moving. Is his leg asleep, or something? Thalia must notice you looking, because she tugs at your sleeve, slowing your pace enough that you're out of direct earshot. 

"Uncle Mark got hurt," She whispers, cupping her hand around her lips like it's a secret. It's completely absurd, but you're happy that she's managing to find some source of innocent, harmless fun in all of this.

"How?" You ask in a hushed tone, looking down at her.

"Some people were following the lady," She says, motioning to Delphi, who is leading your small group without a word, "Uncle Mark had to fight them. Her, too. Nothing bad, just a scratch on his leg."

You nod, mentioning something about doctoring it up later to put her at ease, but you can't help but panic a little. What if it's worse than he lets on, or it gets infected? You have no healing balm, no doctors, no medical supplies, and Mark seems stubborn enough not to announce it to the world when he gets hurt or needs help. You decide to look at it later, when Thalia's not in earshot, to avoid worrying her any. Surely, it can't be too horrible, right?

 

\--

 

You all managed to make a pretty decent camp in a heavily forested part of the arena, and Delphi had even somehow scavenged up some hares to eat. As you sit down to eat, you can't help but let your mind wander. It's been a few hours since you discovered Mark's injury, or at least learned about it, and you're worried sick. Not that you should be, necessarily, considering his movement hasn't gotten any more strained, but it's in your nature. You also learn that eleven cannons had gone off the night before, after you'd fallen asleep in your little hole. Eleven _children,_ all likely slaughtered fighting for supplies at the cornucopia, within seconds of the start of the Games.

As you lay down to camp that night, considering Delphi had called first watch, you stare up at the sky in a desperate search for some answers. You're met with nothing but violet and ash gray, and the faint glimmer of the dome grid that overlays the arena. It's hard to get to sleep in such a situation, but you find that the even low breathing coming from Mark's direction and the steady twinkle of the sky above lulls you into a semi-tired state, which is better than nothing. If nothing else, you can at least enjoy the calm, as opposed to the chaos you expect to be met with in days to come.

Five cannons go off as you drift off to sleep.


	14. Situations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With all of the chaos going on around you, it's a wonder that you manage to find some solace in your small group. You and Mark are sent off on a few errands, which presents a perfect opportunity for some one-on-one bonding!

"What makes you think you're in charge?" You ask, overcome with a short fit of boldness. Delphi doesn't give you the satisfaction of a response, nor does she make any move to defend herself. She simply shoots you and Mark a look, motioning for the two of you to get going.

"Take this," She says, her saccharine voice like honey in your ears, and it's almost sickening. You're still not entirely sure of her, but for now, she's saving your ass, and besides Mark and Thalia, she's the closest thing you've got to an ally. She hands you a small pouch, with leather straps to sling across your shoulder.

"What is this?" You ask, raising a brow at her. Mark laughs quietly, continuing to shove supplies into his pack. "What?"

"Oh, nothing," He says, shrugging almost too innocently.

"It's a slinging mechanism. It braces across your chest, to hold your supplies in place during strenuous activity, as well as conceal weapons. You need an upper hand on anyone you might run into. Speaking of," She steps forward, unsheathing a dagger and sticking it into a small pocket on the back of the strap that you hadn't noticed before. "There, all set. Mark, are you good?"

"Ready." He stands up straight, pulling his pack over his shoulders. "Are you sure that you two will be okay? I don't want Thalia in the line of fire."

"I'm su-" Delphi begins, holding up a hand to silence him, but he cuts her off.

"I mean it, Delphi. I _will not_ have her injured." There's a firmness in his voice that makes your breath catch in your throat - his responsibility for his niece still manages to give you pause.

"She will be in good hands, I promise you." Delphi stands up straight, her green eyes somehow cold, like steel. Maybe she's feeling threatened, you don't know. It doesn't seem often that someone questions her ability.

"Alright, then I guess we're off." Mark looks to you, a small smile on his lips. Before he steps off, he scoops Thalia up in his arms, giving her a kiss on the forehead and a tight, affectionate hug. "We'll be back soon, kiddo."

As he stands, you look to Delphi. "What is our return plan? Meeting up again, I mean."

Something unfamiliar plays on her lips, almost feline - a smile. "I'll find you."

\----------------------------------

"So what is it exactly that she has us doing?" You as Mark, who is trudging through thick bushes and grass a few feet ahead of you.

He slows his pace just enough to walk beside you, smiling genuinely. "We're gonna be spies." At the word ' _spies',_ he moves his hands in an outward motion, making him look approximately nine years old.

"Spies?"

"Delphi wants us to go full stealth mode. Survey the other camps, figure out where the rest of the tributes are holed up. According to her, a lot of them are sticking together." He goes silent for a moment, watching his feet carefully.

"Why? Isn't it smarter to separate? Most of these people can hardly be trusted." You say quietly, only realizing just how it sounded after the words have already left your lips. "Not to say that you and Thalia can't. It's not the two of you I'm worried about."

"Most of the people that struck out on their own died yesterday, [Name]. It's just not safe to be out on your own, and I know that Delphi is a bit strange, but I think she means well." He stops talking, as if he's too busy thinking to get any words out.

You decide to take the lead for a bit, even though the thought of actually finding anyone chills you to your core, and you truly have no idea where you're going.

"Something's weird about the Games this year," You say after a few minutes of silence, deciding to, for once, put your thoughts into words.

"You think so, too?" Mark looks at you, adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose. "I can't put my finger on what it is. It just...out here, in the woods, it feels _unsafe._ I mean, I know we're being hunted by other, probably stronger tributes, but that's not it. It's something else."

You nod, understanding what he means. There's a chill in the air that feels oddly foreign, like less of a temperature difference and more of a...presence.

"Let's just get to where we're going. I don't want to be way out here any longer than we have to be." You say quietly, folding your fingers over one another in a sad attempt at getting your panic under control. You can feel it creeping up your throat, but you refuse to let it out. It could get you killed, or worse, someone else. You can't let yourself freak out.

\---------------------------------

"Do you see them?" Mark asks quietly, holding an arm out to keep you from moving forward. You creep up a little closer, looking in the direction that he's pointing. In the clearing ahead, there's a few scattered piles of supplies, and if you didn't know any better, you'd wager it was some sort of trap. From the few, suspicious dark spots on the ground around them, it looks like someone's already fallen for it. "There, look."

You turn your head slightly, and spot them - a group of boys, all huddled under some sort of makeshift tent. One is sharpening a sword, the oldest, it looks like, but the others are just...sitting there.

"Jesus Christ, Mark, they're just kids." You realize, clamping a hand over your mouth to quiet yourself.

He releases a sad sigh, nodding and turning away. "There's four of them. Districts Five, Eleven, Six, and Eight." He grasps your arm gently, tugging at it to encourage you forward.

"How do you know that?"

He looks over his shoulder at you as he creeps forward, taking cover behind a particularly thick patch of foliage - the leaves are such a bright green that they almost seem fake, or altered, at least. "One of my mentors, Anrick, told me the only way to win was to know your enemy better than they know you. I studied all of the chosen tributes on the way to the Capitol."

"Yeah?" You ask, swallowing the sudden lump in your throat. You're probably going to regret asking this. "And what do you know about me?"

Mark stops dead in his tracks, and the look on his face when he glances at you is enough to confirm your doubts. He knows.

"[Name]..." He sighs, glancing down at his hands.

"We should keep moving."

You swallow your panic and shoulder past him, inching along quietly through the bushes.

"[Name]." This time, he doesn't use that consoling tone of his. He doesn't sound like he's trying to coax a wounded animal out of its hiding place. He just sounds like he's trying to make you listen, and you do.

"What?" You ask, without turning around to look at him. You're determined to get away from those four boy's camp before they hear you whispering to one another. Mark seems to understand your angst, and he only continues when you're both at a safe distance.

"You blame yourself, don't you?"

His words cut through your skin as harshly and painfully as you imagine any knife would. "How can I not? I'm the only one that made it out alive."

"That doesn't mean it's your fault, you know." Mark is quiet for a minute. "You know, your files weren't easy to hack. It took everything I know about computer code just to get your basic information, and nothing short of a few miracles for anything more."

You're not sure you want to hear this, but you let him continue.

"I'm not gonna sit here and tell you all of the atrocious things I learned from your file, [Name]. You already know what happened, so why would I make you relive those memories?" A dry, clearly unamused laugh escapes his throat, and the sound make you shudder slightly. "It's not often that you hear about anything bad happening in District One. After all, when it comes to the Districts, yours is supposed to be the golden child, wielding the Capitol's laws like some kind of stunning report card."

He shakes his head, peering around a tree at a clearing up ahead. It's empty, so he keeps moving, stealthy as any predator.  "So when I read all of the newspaper reports about it, I was...well, shocked, is a good word. But when I thought back on it, I wasn't surprised. I can't imagine the Capitol would let it be known how messed up it's prized District really is."

You can't look at him, and yet, you can't stop listening. He's forcing you to relive all of the things you swore to forget, and somehow, you feel as if a weight is being lifted from your shoulders. Someone knows, and someone understands.

"Your dad, he was a Peacekeeper, right? Born and raised, trained by the best of the best. Commander, at least of District One." He glances over at you, but you can't meet his gaze. "So he was the one expected to enforce all of the Capitol's petty laws, old and new, right? No matter what.

"Apparently, District One wasn't very fond of...well, the _Inferior,_ as they call them." He was looking at his shoes, almost if he felt bad for calling them - well, _you -_ that. "So they made a new law, one that they thought would boost District morale. All of those labeled _Inferior_ to the masses were to be sent to a newly constructed facility on the edge of the District. Normally, that wouldn't have affected your family in particular, other than your father's job of overseeing said exchanges. Well, that, until you came home from the doctor's office, with a brand new bottle of Beta blockers, for your newly diagnosed social anxiety."

Mark stops for a second, and he almost looks like he doesn't want to continue, but he does. "That meant that you were among those to be shipped off in the morning, to die in some facility like a prisoner. Your mother, as the reports stated, had a psychotic breakdown. She didn't want a 'broken child.' She tried to kill you, and your father saved your life. But that's not what happened, is it?"

You stop dead in your tracks. You'd never seen any of the newspaper reports, or heard any of the interviews. You didn't even know that what he said was what the District was telling people, so the story was more than shocking. No, your grandfather had never let any of that touch you, after everything had gone down.

"No, it's not," You say after a moment of dull, uncomfortable silence. Your voice is so quiet and shaky that you're not even sure he can hear you, but the wounded look on his face tells you that he can. "That's not what happened at all."

\------------------------------

**_Somewhere in the Capitol Control Room_ **

"I want that audio cut! _Now!"_ A hundred hands delve into control boards littered with buttons and switches, all scrambling desperately to cut off the audio for cameras seven and twelve. 

"Sir, what is it you'd have us do?" A woman pokes her head up from behind panel seven, the look on her face so deadly afraid that one might have given her pity, if that someone was not him.

Hammil Cronin, the Games director, and positively one of the most unnerving men in the Capitol, save for the President himself. He isn't known for his pity, which is exactly why he holds his title. For the last ten years, every Hunger Games had gone smoothly and without error, due to his supernatural ability to refrain from disappointing the crowds. Up until now, even a hint of error had been eradicated before it ever became a problem.

"What do you mean, ' _what would I have you do?'"_ He asks cruelly, black eyes boring into her skull.

"What Katri means, Sir," An older woman appears at his left, much more sure of her words than the girl, "Is that cameras one through six have all mysteriously stopped working, and our only other working cameras are on the tributes in the encampment the two have already passed. The rest of them are wonky and unreliable."

"Then it appears," He says slyly, "That we will have to drive the tributes back to the camp. One of you, bring up a fire in section four. Either they make their escape into the hands of the boys, or they choke to death on the smoke. I will not have word of that _disturbance_ in District One broadcasted to all twelve."

"And what if they somehow escape, Sir?" The older woman asks, almost unsure.

"Then it appears, Mirona, that we will need a backup plan. Send one of our drones out to section six. Retrieve the little brat that our "tech expert" from District Three has been carrying so carefully under his wing."

Mirona nods, barely managing to mask the fear on her face as she returns to her own panel, pressing the button that deploys the drone into the arena. Not fear for herself, but fear for the girl. It wasn't often that they retrieved tributes from the arena prematurely, and it certainly never ended well.


	15. Stories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You finally open up to Mark, but your bonding moment is cut short.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry these chapters took so long! School has kept me quite busy, but I have a renewed inspiration for this story and have planned out where it's going, so that means more chapters!
> 
> As always, you're you, and Mark is, well, himself. Enjoy! :-)

"My mother loved me," You say quietly, feeling a lump in your throat. "When my dad came home, throwing things and yelling about how there was this new law, saying he had to ship me off himself, first thing in the morning, she tried to convince him. He kept repeating how he didn't want to, how he loved us, loved me, but this was his job. He was born into it, and things were expected of him. Hell, most Peacekeepers weren't even allowed to get married, but he was the Commander, and I guess they had enough trust in him that they knew he'd do his job before anything else. I guess they weren't wrong, really."

You don't know what triggered it, but suddenly the words are spilling out of your mouth, and you can't make them stop. Your eyes are hot and heavy, and something about the way he's watching you, in his sad, quiet way, tells you that he knows how you feel. "She tried to tell him that he was a father, and his family was supposed to come first, but he wouldn't have it. He was brainwashed...a madman, in every way. He wouldn't have it.

"I wasn't supposed to be awake. It was well past my bedtime, and they were arguing in the kitchen. The noise had been loud enough to wake me up, so I'd made myself comfortable in a little nook behind the bookcase, in the foyer just beyond the kitchen. It was close enough to hear, and I'd hidden there before, without being found. Plus, there was enough space between the right side and the wall that I could see them, when they stood by the fridge. It was my luck, I guess, that that's where they decided to have their argument.

"So when she told him that she'd sooner die than let him take me to that concentration camp, he obliged. He always had a gun on his person, because of his job, but it had never seemed like such a threat before. But in that moment, when he pulled it out like he was brandishing it against an enemy, my mother screamed. I'd never been so jarred by a sound in my life, at least, up until that exact point. The gunshot after that was worse, and what ultimately won the prize was when I finally managed to pry my eyes from the floor, and saw that it wasn't my mom on the floor, but my brother. At some point, he'd come running from his room, and tried to pry the gun from my dad, and he'd shot him."

You stop talking just long enough to catch your breath, and Mark seizes the opportunity. "[Name], I am so, _so_ sorry, I-"

"That's not all of it, Mark." You say, trying your best to keep your composure. Your voice is shaky, and it's a wonder it hasn't given in to sobs yet. "My mom didn't even have time to process that it was her _son_ on the floor before he was trying to fire at her again, but somehow, she got the gun away from him. And then _I_ watched, as she shot him, eight times. In the chest, the neck, anywhere close enough for her sloppy aim.

"By that point, all of the screaming and firing had alerted nearly half the neighborhood, and Peacekeepers came flying into the house before her last round had even struck him. He was on the floor already, and there was such a huge puddle of blood and gore and _bodies_ that the first one had to take a step into the hallway so he could vomit into the corner. They grabbed my mom and wrenched the gun away from her, binding her wrists roughly behind her back and escorting her out of the room. That is, the ones that were able to move. Most of them just stood there, either trying not to get sick, or so shocked by their dead Commander's body that they couldn't even continue doing their jobs.

"All she did, regardless of how many times they hit her or slammed hands over her mouth, was scream. For me, my name, over and over again. She didn't stop when they kicked her in the ribs, and she didn't stop when they marched her into the street, and tied her to the brown pole in the center of the plaza. The _Whipping Pole,_ they called it. I watched from the window in the hallway, because I was _so terrified_ that if I went after her, they'd do the same to me."

Mark looks like he wants to grab you, to hold you and tell you that everything is okay, but he seems to understand that it's just not appropriate right now. Instead, he places a hand on your arm, and the gesture is so comforting that whatever rigid stubbornness has been holding back the tears in your eyes dissipates, and they fall, silent, down your cheeks.

"That's when they started screaming about traitors. By then, everyone had come out onto the sidewalks, and into the street, desperate to see what all of the fuss was about. My father's second-in-command, who had always been a family friend welcome in our home, became a monster. It was like he didn't even know her, and she was just some citizen that had broken the law. He beat her, cursed at her, kept screaming about how, 'this was what happened when you didn't follow orders.' He painted her to be a monster, saying she'd gone insane when my father had mentioned the new law, and tried to kill us all. He said that I'd been the only survivor, and his men were still searching for me. He tried to be the hero, the seasoned soldier trying to rescue the bloodied orphan, so people wouldn't question why the woman they'd seen at bake sales, helping out at schools, even bringing them flowers when they were sick, was tied to a post, beaten and bloody.

"People turned on her so fast, it would take a miracle to make someone believe they'd once been her friends. He rallied them against her like a mob of monsters, and not a single one raised a hand in her defense when his soldiers brought out the gasoline. They poured it all over her - on her clothes, her head, even in her mouth. And then, he struck a match, and tossed it. I've never heard a more agonizing scream in my life."

You stop there, because you just can't find the energy to talk about it anymore, and you're sure he knows the rest. Mark just sighs, and uses his hand on your arm to pull you swiftly into his firm chest. You let him, because you're not sure you could hold yourself up if you tried.

"Shh, it's okay," He murmurs quietly, his hand making soothing strokes along your hair. It's comforting, truly, and if you're being frank, he's the only thing holding you together.

As you sit there, face buried in the fabric of his dirty, torn t-shirt, a realization strikes you. "Mark?"

"Yeah?" He asks softly, looking down at you.

"If eleven cannons went off the first night, and five went off last night, doesn't that mean the boys in that camp are the only other ones left? That seems a little fast-paced, right? I mean, they usually drag out the deaths, or keep the tributes from killing each other too quickly."

He doesn't say anything in response.

"Mark?" You look up at him, and notice that he's staring off at something behind you. There's an unsettling flicker of light in the reflection of his glasses.

"[Name], the trees. They're on fire."

"Mark, what are you talk-" You try to turn around, but his hands are around your arms, pulling you up with him.

"Go! Run!" He's pulling you with him, trying his best to dodge trees and branches. The heat that licks at the back of your heels is excruciating. "We have to get out of here!"

"But Mark, the camp!" You scream, wrenching your arms free so that you can dodge as well, trying your best to match his pace. "They'll _kill_ us!"

"It's the only shot we have, we have to go!" He looks at you, and his dark eyes are wide with fear. "Go, go!"


	16. Wildfire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time is running out, and the threat of your possible death is looming closer and closer overhead.

_Needless to say, the escape had not gone quite as planned._

Mark is sprinting full-force, mere steps in front of you, and all the while you are just trying to keep the fire from swallowing you whole. It has grown so large that you're almost positive it has decimated at least a quarter of the arena, which also leaves a nagging sense of disquiet in the back of your mind. You can only hope that Delphi and Thalia made it somewhere safe.

"[Name], it's okay!" Mark calls out suddenly, slowing just enough to keep pace with you. He points just over your shoulder, guiding your attention to the clearing you'd passed earlier.

The four tributes that were occupying the camp earlier are nowhere in site, and their weapons are all splayed on the ground in various positions. Truthfully, it looks like they'd taken one look at the spreading wildfire and run, as any sensible person would do.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" You ask, your voice slightly raspy due to the lack of breath in your lungs.

Mark looks at you, and then past you, to the camp, a small nod racking through his neck. You both make a sharp left, feet carefully stepping over branch and bush, trying desperately to get to the clearing before the fire does.

Somehow, you make it, and both of you begin gathering the backpacks - though there are few - and weapons around you, putting them strategically across your back and tucking them into various sheaths on the straps that Delphi fashioned for you. You know that there could be something here you might need later, so it's better to take all that you can carry, than pick and choose through each bag. It's strenuous and, frankly, you don't have time. The fire could come billowing into the field at any second.

"Come on, we have to go!" Mark shouts, making his way to your side to assist you with the heavy backpack that you're struggling to carry. He slings it over his back like it's nothing, and grabs your hand, tugging you forward with him. You nearly trip, but somehow, your feet figure out what they're doing, and you bolt forward.

He doesn't let go of your hand, and something about the firm way he's grasping at your fingers tells you that he's just as scared as you are. He hides it well, but you know that look - the fearful expression he's trying so hard to mask, the slightly desperate edge to his voice. He's terrified, maybe not even for himself. Maybe for Thalia, or you. Or both.

"I think there's a river up ahead," Mark says suddenly, and his face comes to life with something that almost resembles hope. He looks over at you, and it must be your expression that gives it away, because he seems to understand. You can't keep running like this for much longer. "Just a little longer, [Name], just a little longer."

 

\------------------------

 

"Thalia?" Delphi looks up from where she's been fashioning a trap - a complicated net of branches and vines, all cleverly disguised between two crooked tree trunks. She hasn't heard a peep out of the little girl for quite a bit now. Originally, she'd told her she could go looking for more branches, as long as she stayed within shouting distance, and she had to come back every few minutes or so to check in.

Now that Delphi thought about it, she hadn't been back in a short while. A small, anxious sensation creeps up her spine, twisting her gut into a tight knot. "Thalia?" She grabs her knives and tucks on of them into the sheathe on her left hip, but brandishes the other tightly in her fist. "Thalia!"

Not a sound. Delphi swallows nervously and stalks around a large clump of oak trees, her eyes peeled for the child. She's nowhere to be seen, and Delphi knows that she's too intelligent to just run off. Something has happened.

Just as she's turning back towards her trap to gather her stuff, she hears the sound of footsteps, echoing off of the trees behind her. She whips her head around, expecting to see Thalia, but all she sees are four boys, extremely out of breath and scared out of their wits. They freeze when they see her, and it's a long enough pause for her to flick her wrist, sending one of her daggers harshly through the crisp, burning air. It strikes its target, slicing cleanly through the neck of the tallest boy, well ahead of the other three. She unsheathes her other dagger, and repeats the same action, only this one slices cleanly through the chest of the next.

Quickly, she retrieves her daggers, just as the other two come sprinting between the trees. One draws his knife, but the other stands there, dumbfounded by the hostile encounter. It's a long enough pause for her to take him down, and then the other is making angry cries, slicing his weapon at her. They spend a few, exhausting moments locked in constant combat, an exciting mixture of her making offensive strokes, and him just trying to keep up. He's so blinded by his anger that his strokes are blind and supremely lacking any sort of trained skill. The only advantage he seems to have on her is his size and strength. She's faster, however, and it's not long before she's cut clean through him as well.

Normally, combat would've taken much longer, especially in such conditions, but what Delphi hadn't been letting on about was that she'd been trained in the art of war for quite some time. Little twigs like these are nothing to her. Well, close to nothing. The stinging sensations on her left bicep and cheek beg to differ. She must've been so caught up in her assault that she hadn't noticed the wounds she'd taken.

Her bicep is bleeding considerably, the source being a clean, bright red cut that had nearly taken a section of fabric off of her sleeve. She makes a small stunt of taking some first aid materials out of her pack and properly wrapping her wound. As for the small cut on her cheek, she merely pours some rubbing alcohol on a cotton swab, and grits her teeth as she wipes it clean. It isn't bleeding very badly, so there is no use in wasting materials on covering it up. At the least, it would make her look like a seasoned combatant. Not that she cares. All she needs to do right now is find the girl, and what she doesn't know is that the wildfire raging a few kilometers away is quickly erasing any evidence that might have alluded to Thalia's disappearance.

But she is definitely gone, and the only tributes that appear to be left are [Name], Mark, and herself. Something has to be done. Now.

\---------------

The water is unexpectedly warm when it hit your skin, and the contact is so harsh that you suck in a breath, careful to shut your mouth before your head is fully submerged. Mark had jumped in only feet from you, and somehow he manages to find your hand again after the two of you have stuck the landing. He has been almost clingy, refusing to let go of you for what you suspect is fear of losing you in all of the chaos.

"Are you okay?" He asks quietly, his face unexpectedly close to yours when you surface. He looks genuinely worried, and it makes your stomach twist, knowing he cares so much.

"Yeah, I'm okay." You're scared, though, and what you don't want to let on about is the building anxiety creeping up your throat. Everything is closing in around you, and the stench of burning wood and leaves wafting through the air is both sweet and suffocating. The fire is painting a false picture on the surface of the water - the way that the orange and red ripple around the deep blue is beautiful, but makes the fact that the source of that light is burning steadily just behind you all the more unsettling.

You can feel the panic coming up, but you're trying desperately to smother it, because you know that he has a million other things to worry about. You do, too, but truthfully, that's the reason you're slowing losing your grasp on your stability.

When you glance at his face, he's not looking at you, but past you, and his eyes are wide.

"Mark?" You ask softly, your voice barely audible. He glances down at you, and his face visibly softens, a small smile creeping up onto his lips.

"Yeah?" He uses his grip on your hand to pull you closer in the water.

"Are we going to die?" Your voice cracks on the last word, and the toll that the question takes on his expression is almost heartbreaking.

"No, [Name], it's just-" He doesn't seem very convincing, and he soon realizes that. "I don't know."

You feel the panic welling up again, but this time you can't dam it down. "I'm just so scared, Mark," you whimper, blinking your eyes profusely. The thought of crying in front of him, when he's been so strong for the rest of you, isn't pleasing. "We're all that's left. You, me, Thalia, Delphi...I-I still don't trust her completely, and you and I both want to get Thalia out of here alive, and I just..."

He opens his mouth to say something, but no words come out, only a small, guttural sound that only implies his own doubts.

"That means we have to die, doesn't it?" You know asking the question is dumb, because of course that's what it means, but to make it happen, you have to make it real, and you have to accept it. "I'm just so terrified. I went into this knowing I probably wouldn't make it far, but to be one of the final four, and so quickly, it's just so _terrifying,_ Mark." You're crying now, and he's trying desperately to wipe your tears away, but his hands are wet too and they won't stop coming.

"What if something happens? What if Delphi betrays us, or they kill us for no reason, or someone other than Thalia makes it out of here? I can't, Mark, I _can't_ be the one to survive this. If I do, how am I supposed to be okay with that? To _live_ with myself, knowing the blood of the only friends I've ever had is on my hands? How do I-"

Suddenly he's pulling at you, his face twisted in such a way that you almost feel bad, rambling like this, but he does exactly what you least expect. He silences your worries by pressing his mouth against yours, his hands making their way from your arms up to the sides of your face, where he clings to you, as if terrified of letting go.

Somehow, with a wildfire blazing violently all around you, and the constant threat of death looming overhead, you manage to find solace in the center of lake with a tribute from District Three, that you're suddenly terrified of losing.


	17. Lost and Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes lost things can be found.

"What are you _doing_?" There's a voice, so sudden and sharp that you jolt upward, grasping for anything near you. That 'anything' happens to be none other than Mark himself, who is also stirring. The two of you are lying on a flat, slightly slanted rock, halfway out of the water. At some point in the chaos, the two of you had passed out, or something like that.

"I...I-I don't know," You mumble quietly. Mark looks equally as confused, and Delphi, well, she just looks irritated. It doesn't seem likely that you just _fell asleep,_ and you'd be in a lot more pain if you'd passed out from smoke inhalation. Despite your confusion, you figure it has something to do with the little bees controlling every element, the ones locked in a small control chamber, watching and controlling your every move. They must've knocked you out somehow.

"There was a wildfire," Mark says, and his voice sounds much closer than you'd realized. In fact, he's only inches from you. Not inches, actually, _centimeters._

He gets up, dusting what little bits of ash and soot cover his clothes off, and turns to Delphi. "We ran, and we figured the lake was a safe-" He stops suddenly, and Delphi's face morphs so quickly you almost don't catch the change. She looks...guilty.

"Where is Thalia?" Mark asks, his tone no less serious than his expression. You hadn't noticed yourself, and now that you look around, you don't see the little girl anywhere.

"I lost her." Delphi is curt, and by the sudden shift in Mark's body language, you think it's safe to say he's on the verge of exploding.

"You _lost_ her?" He chokes out, his voice so quiet it's almost scary. It's the kind of quiet that parents use, when you're in so much trouble that they can't even bring themselves to yell. It's disconcerting quiet.

"I was making a trap, and when I turned around, she was gone." Delphi shrugs, but under her curt words and abrasive behavior, you can see she's worried, too. "I ran into those four boys, though. They aren't a problem anymore."

The brusque way she mentions their deaths perturbs you, and it only strengthens your distrust of her. "Didn't you at least try to find her?"

Mark steps away, hands on the sides of his head as if he's about to claw his brain out. You place a soft hand on his shoulder, hoping to offer him some sort of comfort, but he shrugs you off and walks over to where the water is creeping up on the rock.

"I did, but the fire erased any clues she might've left." Delphi is quiet for a moment, her serpentine eyes following Mark's movements, before snapping back to you. "It wasn't a tribute that took her, though, which means it was the supervisors."

"Supervisors?"

"The people that orchestrate the Games. The same ones that made that fire to begin with." She turns away from you, looking instead at the black, ashy hill that exists just beside the lake.

"What would they want with her?" Mark asks quietly, and he sounds so defeated it breaks your heart.

"There's no telling." Delphi offers him a sympathetic look, and you think it's the only time you've seen her make a face that resembles anything human.

"Well, she's bound to turn up somewhere, right? Let's just go look-"

"No, [Name]." Mark cuts you off, turning away from the water. "If they took her, we can't get her back." His voice breaks, and he looks like he's struggling to hold back whatever he's been bottling up all this time.

"Mark, don't say that," You whisper, "Surely we can do _some_ thing to he-"

"No." His voice is like steel, and it shocks you into silence with its venom. You're trying to be the optimistic one, as he's been for you, but he's not letting you. You're not sure what else to do.

"O-okay." You mumble, but it's not enough for you. You're not giving up like this. "Fine." Your second sentence is just as blunt as his, and you grab your daggers from where they rest on the ground, tucking them into your belt.

"[Name], what are you doing?" Mark tries to grab the bow before you do, but you're quicker, and you sling it across your back. Now you're just angry. Not at him, but at his whole situation. Everything about this is going miserably, and you're not about to just sit back and let it happen.

Delphi is watching you, too, but she makes no effort to stop you. In fact, it almost looks like she's _smiling._ That odd way that the corners of her lips turn up, almost feline. It's unsettling.

"If you don't want to do anything about it, I will." You give Mark a hard look, immediately regretting it, but you can't stop now. You know he's going through enough, but you can't just sit back and let this happen.

"You can't just go off by yourself, [Name]." Suddenly he's putting on his backpack too, but you won't have it. You're doing this, and you're doing this alone. For Thalia.

"Watch me." You're all set to go now, save for your sling that houses your arrows. You're not very good with a bow, but it couldn't hurt to have.

"[Name]-" He's reaching for you again, somehow still set on stopping you.

"Who's gonna hurt me, Mark?" You demand, flashing him a look. "Tributes? They're all dead. Some crazy, homicidal development that they cook up in the control room? Fine, I'm a dead man anyway."

He looks hurt, and you really want to stop, to put all of your stuff down and just stay here, but you have to go.

"I'm coming back, Mark." Your tone is gentler this time, reassuring. "And I'll have Thalia with me."

Before he can say more, you turn on your heel and grab for a root, pulling yourself up over the small incline and back into the woods.

\------------------

You've been walking for a while now, hours, maybe. Mark had eventually come after you, and now he trails behind you, dead silent.

"I'm sorry," He says suddenly, and you feel fingers wrap around your wrist. You turn, about to tell him how you need to keep going, how you don't have time for this, but the look on his face silences you. "I was too harsh with you."

"It's okay." You say after a second, because frankly, it is. He's going through something heart-wrenching, and having been there yourself, you understand. "Don't worry about it."

He nods, but pulls you into his chest, his arms enclosing you tightly. "I just don't want to lose you." His face is buried in your hair, and you can't help but hold him back, hoping to offer him some bit of comfort. "Both of you. I want to find her so badly, and I want the three of us to get out of here. To go somewhere safe. Hell, even Delphi. She's strange, sure, but she's been helpful. I'd take that over hostile any day."

"We'll find her, Mark, I promise." You pull back, hands gripping his shoulders firmly. You need him to understand you. "We will."

"Find who?" You jump back from him, startled by the voice, and it's eerie familiarity.

She's there, standing behind Mark, and you feel relief flood through your body.

"Thalia!" You exclaim, hands gripping at the straps of your pack so hard your knuckles turn white. "We've been looking for you everywhere."

Mark turns, and suddenly there's a sharp, painful sound, and blood spatters against the stones below you.

"You found me," She says, her voice sickeningly sweet, and she pulls the knife out of Mark's abdomen.


	18. Betrayal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes the Games go smoothly, and sometimes it takes a little...push.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a fair warning, this chapter gets a big graphic. But don't lose hope! And, if you get this reference, the thought of future chapters fills you with determination!

Everything moves slowly. It's almost as if there's an eternal pounding in your ears, like the striking of a clock, or a fist on a door. A sharp, foul sound, that makes you cold shiver all over and cold to the core.

And she's just _there,_ with her wild, chocolate eyes so similar to his it hurts. The knife is still in her hands, the metal dripping with his blood, but it's not buried in his stomach anymore. No, he's free of that burden, at least.

Mark's lying on the ground, hands clamped over the wound that's bleeding profusely, but his eyes are focused on her. He looks so...confused, so _betrayed._

"What the hell are you doing?" You shout at her, but it doesn't sound like your own voice. In fact, nothing sounds correct. Everything seems off, like you're watching it through a hole in the sky. You wish more than anything that you could be one of those thousands of lucky souls watching this through a camera lens, involved, and yet somehow separate. For them, none of this _really_ matters. None of this _really_ affects them. It's just an annual method of entertaining themselves.

And like the sick, disgusting little creature she's become, she _smiles._ "My job." She says plainly, throwing the knife at your feet. "I'll be seeing you around."

As her pitter-patter footsteps fade out, you slump to Mark's side, hoping more than anything that this isn't fatal. It _can't_ be. This isn't happening, this is all some hallucination, or some sick fantasy that the supervisors implanted in your head. In just a second, you're going to wake up on the rock again, and Mark is going to be okay, sound asleep next to you. This can't be happening. _This can't be happening._

There's a stinging pain in your ribs, but you ignore it, unable to focus on anything or anyone but Mark. He's grasping at his stomach as if trying to push the blood back into his body, but it isn't working, and angry tears are already dripping down his face.

"That wasn't her," He chokes, groaning at the pain. "It can't be, [Name], it can't be." He's whispering now, as if hoping that somehow talking quieter will make his stomach move less. It does, slightly, but nothing significant.

"You're right," You say, so numb that you're unable to come up with anything else. You feel a wetness on your cheeks that can only be your own tears, but you make no effort to wipe them away. You have to help him. _Somehow,_ you have to help him walk away from this. "It wasn't her."

And then there's footsteps, and you hear wheezing. You turn just enough to look over your shoulder, and freeze instantly. Thalia's back, only this time, with body in tow. It's Delphi, and she's sobbing, clutching at her neck. As she comes closer, you're horrified by the gaping wounds that splinter outward along her rib cage, all considerably deep and bleeding so heavily that it makes you want to vomit. She's wheezing, and the sound is so breathy and strained that it strikes you instantly that she's not going to make it.

"I told you I'd be seeing you around," Thalia says, her voice sing-song. She seems so _thrilled_ to be here, and the blood splattered across her clothing is sickening. "Now it's just down to you, and good old Uncle Mark. Delphi won't last much longer, I'm afraid." She kicks the redhead in the ribs, and Delphi releases a guttural sound that closely resembles a dying animal.

"I'd like to have a talk with you," Thalia continues, her gaze sliding down to Mark, who has grown pale. " _Without_ company."

She grabs a blade from Delphi's belt, and before you can lift your heavy limbs to stop her, she's lodged it in his chest. And then there's another, in the pit of his stomach, and another, at the base of his throat. He's choking, and you're sobbing, and bile is rising up your throat.

"They told me a few things at the Capitol, when they took me," She says, wiping her hands off as if it's dirt, and not her Uncle's blood. "Some interesting things. Like how you three were so determined to all make it out of here, and that's just breaking the rules." She giggles. "So now I have to take care of you, and get my hands all dirty. But the President promised me a nice house and _lots_ of toys, as long as I'm a 'good little pet.'" That childlike laugh is back again, and suddenly she's standing over you.

"You were a good friend and all, but I do believe it's time for this nonsense to end. Who knows? Maybe I'll name a _doll_ after you." She grins, the expression marred by the smear of blood on her face.

Suddenly she's brandishing a dagger again, the bloody one that had been on your feet, and she's stepping towards you.

You scream, but it's no use, and the pain in your stomach spreads into your very bones. The knife is in your gut, and she's twisting it, sending volts of pain up and down your spine. That saccharine smile in still on her face, and the bodies of your friends are still, and your tears are wet on your cheeks.

Just as you try to scream again, everything goes black.


	19. Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things don't always turn out badly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this fanfic is slowly coming to a close, and it's been a wild ride. I know I upset quite a few people with the cliffhanger at the end of the last chapter, but never fear! It all resolves itself in the end. 
> 
> After this, there will be one, final chapter to resolve all lose ends in a neat little bow. I hope you all have enjoyed the story, and I hope no one's too angry with me, haha :-)
> 
> Enjoy!

"[Name]." It's dark, and in a sudden flush of feeling everything begins to hurt, but somehow a voice reaches your ears. It's familiar, but you can't place it. "[Name], please, wake up."

"Just leave her be," Another voice says, also strangely familiar. "She'll be up soon enough."

"If you say so. They all took a pretty hard hit. That little girl sure packs a punch."

You're confused, but when you try to open your eyes, nothing happens. The very same outcome occurs when you try to speak.

"I knew she would get far, from the very beginning. She's quiet, distrustful. I told her to use that when I last saw her."

"Well, I wouldn't be so sure. She hasn't made it out yet - that little girl sure did a number on her. She's had it the worst of the three."

The second her words reach your ears, memories come flooding into your head all at once. Mark, and blood, and Delphi screaming. Thalia smiling, a bloody knife in her hands. The feeling of her blade twisting around in your gut. You groan, hands fumbling for your stomach, but they won't move. Either you're restrained or you're drugged, and both are equally as confusing.

"I think she's awake." You feel hands on your head, lifting it up ever so slightly, and something soft slides behind it. "It's okay, darling, you're safe."

You feel someone fumbling with your arm, and suddenly, you don't feel so heavy. It's enough of a difference that you're able to open your eyes, and when you do, you're blinded by something bright, hanging directly overhead.

"That's it, [Name], nice and easy." You try to follow the voice with your eyes, and though you manage, the movement is dreadfully slow. "Remember me?"

It's the tall, pretty lady that helped you out when you first arrived at the Capital. _Isabella,_ you think. Somehow, you manage a small nod, and she smiles ever so softly.

"Don't strain her, Isabella." That other voice is also painfully familiar - slightly sarcastic, but somehow still warm. It's Red, the very same girl who questioned your ability to begin with. Only now, she's smiling, and it's not the least bit hostile.

"How do you feel?" Isabella asks, bracing your shoulder with her palm.

You decide to be frank. "Like shit."

Red laughs. "You definitely took one for the team. You were in the worst shape when we got there."

Now you're so lost in confusion that you're having trouble keeping up, and you definitely were not in the worst shape. Delphi had practically been torn apart. "But Delphi-"

"Is fine," Isabella says reassuringly, stroking your hair. It's almost motherly, and it makes a lump form in your throat.

"No, she can't be. I _saw-_ "

"What they wanted you to see." Red shakes her head, practically spitting the words. "What _really_ happened is far from what you saw."

"Not too far, though." Isabella chimes in, before silencing herself, as if she feels bad for being so harsh.

"Look, [Name], everything you saw was a...a hallucination, I guess. You see, when the supervisors up in the Control Room heard you telling Mark about what happened with your parents, they panicked. They needed leverage. So they sent out a drone to snatch Thalia right out from under Delphi's nose. They sent her into surgery, and had a small chip implanted in the back of her skull that controlled her thoughts and movements, at the supervisors' will.

"Then, they tossed her back in, but by then, their wildfire plan had backfired and the other four tributes were dead, thanks to Delphi. So they sent Thalia after the three of you. So when she stumbled on you and Mark, your back was turned to her, and he didn't see her coming. She stabbed you between the ribs."

You feel your muscles tense up, and the sudden rigidity sends waves of pain echoing up and down your body. Isabella strokes your back, as if she's trying to keep you from having a mental breakdown. It's understandable, considering you're being told that every traumatic even you've witnessed in the last twenty four hours isn't correct, and your memories are false.

"Her knife was a special prototype, designed to inject tracker jacker venom upon contact. One of the most common side affects of the venom is hallucination, and the special cocktail they cooked up was even more lethal. The venom carried small chips, and once implanted into your bloodstream, they essentially hijacked your internal processing. What you saw was whatever the supervisors directed the chips to put in front of you. The live footage was...a bit different, to say the least."

"We are not showing her that." Isabella looks at Red with a hostile glint to her eye, clamping her hands on your shoulders protectively. "She's seen enough, she doesn't need to see more."

"Well, I'll just tell her what happened, then." Red rolls her eyes and sits on the edge of your bed, which you now realize is one of those cots you'd see in a hospital room. Now that you think about it, you have no idea where you are. Or where Delphi is, or Mark.

"Where am I?" You ask pitifully, looking around.

"I'm getting there." Red places a hand over yours, and it sends shivers up your spine. You feel as though she's about to relay some bad news. "After Thalia stabbed you, Mark was too shocked to really do anything, which is understandable. So she took the opportunity to keep...well, _going at it_ , and you were already incapacitated before he could do anything. Then she just ran off, leaving you to basically bleed to death.

Mark was pretty distraught, to say the least. He couldn't help you in any way, and when he tried to patch you up, he ran out of bandages and the blood wouldn't stop coming."

"It was heartbreaking." Isabella says, shaking her head.

"Then, Thalia came back, with Delphi in tow. That much was true, but Delphi wasn't all torn up, like you thought. She had one stab wound, in her abdomen. Mark was too busy fussing over you to notice, even though you'd stopped responding. Your eyes were still open, though, so he just sat there, crying and trying to put you back together. He didn't even look up with Thalia attacked him, too. She stabbed him a few times in the stomach, but her aim must've been terrible. She didn't hit anything important."

"Does that mean he's okay?" You ask, your voice unacceptably small.

"He's being patched up as we speak." Isabella smiles at you, brushing hair out of your face. "It's taken longer than we'd originally planned, though. He's tried quite a few times to slip out of his chords and rip the IV out. He's worried sick about you, [Name]."

"She's not wrong. He's acting like a madman." Red shakes her head, but there's a small smile on her lips. "Anyway, by that point, Thalia was running around like a little psycho, and the three of you were bleeding out in a little friendship circle. That's when we stepped it." Red grins.

You frown, eyebrows furrowed. "Who's 'we'?"

"The Resistance." Isabella smiles proudly, and pulls back the collar of her sweater, revealing a small, bronze pin that's attached to her t-shirt. It's got a mockingjay on it, at least you think. You can't help but feel like you've seen it somewhere. "Now, I know what you're thinking. The Resistance tried and failed a few decades ago. The Capital just squashed them again, but this time it's different. Sure, we don't have a 'Girl On Fire,' or anything like that, but we have stronger numbers than they could've ever hoped to have. And we don't have to hide our base in some forgotten district on the edge of the map. We have small, undetectable bases in every city."

That's where you'd seen that pin. You'd learned about the last rebellion in school, lead by some girl named Katna, or something. No...that wasn't it. It started with a K, you were sure. The pin had been the symbol of the rebellion, and the Capital had done its best to erase any traces of it after they'd regained control.

"She's right," Red says, grinning wickedly, "So it was no surprise when we did a little... _surprise_ rescue mission. The Capital had no idea that the Resistance was in the works again, so they were more than surprised when some of our troops stormed the Hall, and ripped the President right out of his chair. He's on trial as we speak." She pulls out a device, as if expecting to see a message. There's nothing, so she puts it away and returns her attention to you. "We rushed the four of you over here to Mission Capital, where there had already been hundreds of doctors in the name of the Resistance."

"Wait," You say, feeling slightly sick. "Four? Thalia's here?"

"She is." Isabella gives you a sympathetic look. "She's not a threat any longer."

"How?" You're afraid of the answer.

"Well, whoever implanted that chip in her skull was sloppy," Isabella murmurs, "Or so our doctors said. So they sent her back into surgery, to have the chip removed. It was safely extracted hours ago, and she's currently in recovery. So far, she shows no signs of aggression. Truthfully, she just seems terrified. She won't stop crying."

You feel a wave of relief wash over your shoulders. _Thalia's okay,_ you think, smiling, _She's okay._

Suddenly, you hear a loud noise in the hallway, followed by the sounds of struggle. You're sure it's a hoard of Peacekeepers, here to take back the Capital and put you all to death, but when you glance up, the two of them are just smiling. They don't seem worried at all.

"What's going on?"

"Well, Mark should be patched up by now. I imagine that's him giving the nurses a piece of his mind. We aren't supposed to have any visitors while you're in such high-hazard recovery," Isabella winks at you, "But I imagine I can make an exception just this once."

As she speaks those words, she's moving over to the door, and the second she pulls it open, Mark nearly falls to the ground. His face is red and he's out of breath, but from his expression, you don't imagine he's concerned about himself.

"Where is she?" He asks, his voice raspy. Isabella steps to the side, and you can see the wave of relief that washes over his face.

The dark circles under his eyes give away how exhausted he must be, and the bandages wrapped around his torso are unsettling. At the least, he looks like he'll survive, which is enough for you.

"God, [Name], I was so worried," He breaths, moving quickly to your side. You try to sit up, but pain flushes through your chest and you groan, sitting back. "No, don't...just relax."

He smiles down at you, but the expression seems pained, and his eyes seem sad.

You decide to give him the good news, knowing fully well that it's exactly what he's so upset about. He swore to protect his niece, and as far as you know, he thinks she's dead. Or a crazy, knife-wielding maniac. You can't decide which is worse. "She's okay, Mark."

He frowns, unsure of what you're talking about, but you notice the small flicker of hope in his eyes.

"Thalia, she's okay. It wasn't her." You lift a hand, putting it on his arm. He weaves his fingers through yours, gripping them tightly. Hopefully. "The supervisors had a microchip implanted in her head, to control her. It wasn't her."

"Does that mean...?" He asks softly, his voice strained.

"She's gonna be okay." You smile at him, and it warms your heart when he returns the expression. "They removed the chip. She's in recovery, and doesn't remember a thing. She's going to be okay."

"Thank god." He rests his forehead against your hand, momentarily shielding his face. You can see the way it affects him, knowing that he didn't fail his brother. "What about you, though?" He doesn't ask you the question, however. He's facing Isabella and Red, who are both watching the two of you with bright smiles.

"She'll be fine," Red says reassuringly, nodding at him. "She just needs a bit of time to heal."

"And Delphi?" He really is concerned for the group.

"She's a trooper, she'll live. I bet she's in the cafeteria right now." Red laughs. "I've seen her take worse damage."

"Wait, what?" You ask. They know each other?

"Delphi's one of our agents. She was assigned the task of volunteering for the Games, so that we'd have an inside eye. She's been with us for years, trained from the very beginning." Red smiles. "She's my sister."

Now that you think about it, they do have an uncanny resemblance. You can't believe you hadn't placed it before.

Just then, the doors swing open once again, only this time it's a nurse. "I know you said no disturbances," He says sheepishly, fumbling with his hands, "But she wouldn't stop crying for her Uncle, and I felt so _bad,_ and..."

He's cut off by a small pitter-patter of footsteps behind him, and suddenly, Thalia is racing into the room, cheeks wet and arms outstretched. Mark's waiting, a bright, happy smile on his face. He scoops the little munchkin up, swinging her around.

"We're okay, pumpkin, we're okay." He murmurs into her hair, and the sight fills you with warmth.

They hold each other for a few more moments, and then he sets her down. Her face lights up when she sees you, and the innocence in that expression weakens any resolve you might have had. It really hadn't been her, in that arena, and you find yourself lifting an arm and pulling her into your chest. "Hey there, kiddo."

"Are you gonna be okay?" She asks, studying the tubes in your arms.

"I'll be fine," You reassure her, smiling softly. She smiles back at you, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

"I was really scared," Thalia admits sheepishly, "They said not to panic, but I couldn't help it. Then the bad thoughts came, and I had another episode, so the nice nurse man brought me here."

Mark wipes her cheeks, kissing her softly on the crown. "It's alright, Thalia," He murmurs, sighing. "Everything is alright now."

And somehow, even with tubes in your arms and bloody bandages on your chest, you believe him.


	20. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five years later.

"Hey [Name]?" You hear Mark's voice from down the hallway, and it immediately makes you smile. "A little help?"

You balance Tom on your hip, booping his nose with your own. He laughs, chocolate brown eyes lighting up with the rest of his face. You laugh softly, kissing him on the forehead, and make your way down the hallway. When you turn around the corner into the living room, you laugh, seeing Mark sprawled on the ground. Ashe is sitting on top of him, trying desperately to pin his broad arms down with her tiny hands.

"You mean to tell me that you can't handle a four year old?" You ask, laughing softly. Ashe sits up, grinning proudly up at you. She looks just like her father - they both do - with her slanted, chocolate eyes, and unruly auburn hair. Hers is much curlier, though, similar to yours. It falls down her back in compact little ringlets, dark in color and thick in girth.

"I got him, Mommy!" She exclaims, and Thalia laughs from her position on the couch. She's got a sketchbook balanced on her knee, and from what you can tell, she's working on another drawing.

She's become quite accustomed to the arts, since the Games, and she's actually quite good. Being seventeen now, she's blossomed into an incredibly sweet, incredibly talented young woman. You're proud, and you know that any feeling you have is amplified as far as Mark goes.

"You did, sweetheart." You grin, setting Tom on the ground next to his father. He grins, holding out his hands as he toddles over to his father.

Ashe seizes the opportunity to run towards you, throwing her arms around your waist. You scoop her up, kissing her on each cheek, and she giggles. It's such a sweet sound that you laugh too, hugging her tightly.

By this point, Mark has pulled himself off the ground enough that he's sitting with his back against the couch, arms stretched towards his son. Tom giggles, giving a little hop, and lands against Mark's chest, making him sigh in surprise.

"He walks pretty well for a one year old," Thalia says, looking up from her sketchbook. She's smiling, too. Everyone's smiling, and it's such a lovely sight. She still doesn't remember a thing - you and Mark had explained to her that the supervisors had begun sabotaging the Games, and the Resistance had stepped in. There had been no need to include the gory details, because the two of you had known she'd only beat herself up.

"He's eighteen months, Thalia," You say, laughing. "He is pretty advanced, though. Smart kid, like his father."

"Daddy is really smart!" Ashe chimes in, giggling. Her ringlets are tied into a series of braids on her head, thanks to her cousin. Thalia loves to play with her hair, and is always tying it up in some way. Her 'artistic expression,' as she puts it. Ashe doesn't mind, which is the important part. She says it makes her look like a princess. "He fixed my puppy toy! Now she can bark again."

"Lovely," You say sarcastically, but you can't maintain the expression.

By this point, Tom is sitting contently in Mark's lap, playing with his wallet. Mark wraps his hands around his son's face, before pulling them back, grinning at him. "Peek-a-boo!"

Tom laughs, flashing a toothless smile. Thalia sets her sketchbook aside and crouches in front of Ashe.

"What do you say we go try out that braid I showed you yesterday?" She asks, taking her by the hand.

"Could you let Chica in on your way?" You ask, quirking a brow.

Thalia nods, and moves into the kitchen. You hear the sound of a collar rattling, and then Chica comes barreling into the room, trying to lick your daughter's face.Ashe giggles, practically pulling Thalia towards the stairs. Chica follows them up, so excited that her tail is moving her entire body, and she nearly trips on the stares. Ashe is well ahead of Thalia, who is struggling to keep up.

"Strong kid," You murmur, chuckling softly.

"Like her mom," Mark says, sitting back against the couch. He has a lazy smile on his face, the same one you love so dearly. You laugh, and he chimes in with that low rumble of his. "Heard anything from Delphi?"

After all this time, Delphi's finally worked her way up the ranks of the Resistance. She's head Peacekeeper for all twelve districts, and she holds her troops true to their titles. In fact, it's not called the Resistance any more. Now it's just the New Order, and they run things like a true utopia. The Peacekeepers truly just keep things under control, and the new president, Iberis Stoneworth, or Ibi, as they call her, is genuinely kind. She tours the districts, making sure everything is in order and addressing issues in person. People love her, including you and Mark.

"She said she'd like to join us for dinner. She might be a bit late, though. Apparently some new recruits came in from District One that need a little straightening out." You laugh softly. "She said they still hold the mindset that District One is the golden child, and she plans to change that."

"Well it must be, if you came out of it." Mark smiles, pulling you into his lap. Tom scoots over, laughing ecstatically as you join him.

You sling an arm over Mark's shoulder, kissing him on the cheek. He returns the kiss, only on your lips, before they split into a big, goofy grin. "I guess I should start dinner then."

Mark nuzzles your neck, laughing softly. The air on your neck makes you shiver. "Do you have to?"

"Unfortunately. It won't take long." You grin, pulling yourself back up out of his lap. "Come on, Tom, want to help Mommy cook?"

Mark shakes his head, scooping Tom up with him as he stands. "No, it's alright. I've got him." He winks at you, tucking his wallet back into his pocket. "Say, Tom, how about you come watch Daddy play a game? Your Uncle used to love it."

Though Tom doesn't entirely understand the question, he claps his hands, enticed by the word, 'game.' Mark grins and carries him off into the office, booting up a small device that he says he's had since he was a kid.

You smile to yourself, making your way back into the kitchen. It's been years since you nearly lost your life in the arena, and somehow, everything worked out. Thalia's been accepted to an art school in the Capital, and Mark's gotten back into engineering. You have two beautiful, happy children, and you're living in a nice house with the man you love. For once in a lifetime, the Resistance won out, and no one seems to be upset about it.

As you pull a pan out of the drawer under the stove, you can't help but smile to yourself. You can only hope that somehow, somewhere, your family is watching you now, and they're proud.

You know you are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this has definitely been a wild ride. I know I've put some of you through some frustrating moments, but alas, it all worked out in the end. I hope you all really enjoyed this fic, and I hope you all continue to read things I post in the future. I'm starting another story after this one, which will also be a Markiplier x Reader fan-fic. So, look out for that if you enjoy my writing!
> 
> Thanks so much for all of the reads and kudos, as well as comments. They've all helped me stay inspired and have made writing this story even more enjoyable. 
> 
> I hope you all have a wonderful day, and I'll see you in the next fic!


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